Night Bise
by Kinderby
Summary: A spoiled heiress embarks on a madcap adventure to reunite with her husband. Things get a little complicated along the way when she meets the love of her life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm still writing my other stories, but it's early November, temperature here is still in the upper 80s every day (30C, my European friends) and it's making me cranky to write winter/Christmas scenes in this heat!

I've gone back and forth on this story, thinking maybe it was a little too on-the-nose to write a GWTW fanfic homage to a movie that itself stars Clark Gable. But also, what the hell. Besides, _It Happened One Night_ is one of my tippy-top most favorite movies, and one that, I think, has a really wonderful, happy character dynamic that unfortunately we just barely got to see in the book. ALSO I FOUND OUT TODAY I PASSED THE BAR EXAM. I am pretty sure there's something in the Constitution about posting a new story when that happens.

I hope you like it! Drop a line if you do.

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Night Bise

Seagulls circled overhead. A soft wind blew cool and salty air across the water of the bay. A bright Florida sun hung in the sky, bathing the world at large in warmth. The two men standing on deck noticed none of it.

"Hunger strike, eh? How long's this been going on?" Gerald O'Hara asked the boat captain.

"She hasn't had a thing yesterday or today," Sam answered, a touch nervously. Oh, Gerald was a good boss—blustery but never cruel. All bark and no bite, as they say. Still, on issues concerning the matter of his only child… the old man could be a little touchy sometimes.

"Send the meals to her regularly?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied.

"Well, why don't you jam it down her throat?" Gerald retorted, his voice slightly raised. (See? Touchy.)

Sam straightened his shoulders as he stood his ground, calmly looking back at his boss. "Well, it's not as simple as all that, Mr. O'Hara," he explained gently, as if his boss were a five-year-old. Sometimes, if one acted hurt by Gerald's empty threats, he would be filled with contrition and give you an extra day off in apology; other times, he just needed to be placated. This seemed like one of the 'kid gloves' times.

It worked, deflating Gerald a little like a balloon. "Agh," he said, waving his arm, his brogue thickening as it was wont to do when exasperated. "I'll talk to her myself. Have some food brought up to her."

Sam watched Gerald go below-deck. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. Miss O'Hara's—except she wasn't Miss O'Hara anymore, was she?—tempers were legendary. He did not envy the man.

~~~nb~~~

" _I'm not going to eat a thing until you let me off this boat!_ " a voice carried easily through the closed door. The three men eavesdropping on the tête-à-tête glanced around at each other. They'd been wondering how this stalemate would end for days now. The boss's daughter wasn't so bad—especially if she wanted something, she sure could be nice. But cross her, and hoo boy. They did not envy the man who fought with her.

" _Hmm-HMM._ " A throat clearing startled them out of their commiseration. Sam was standing a few feet away, behind a tray laden with covered dishes. The men scurried guiltily back to their posts.

Inside, Scarlett was facing the fireplace, resolutely refusing to look at her father. Pa always let her have anything she wanted! She couldn't understand why he was being this way, now of all times!

"Oh come now, Katie Scarlett," Gerald cajoled. He put his hands on her shoulders to turn her around. "You know I'll have my way." Daughters were such a tremendous trouble! He wouldn't trade his Katie Scarlett for anything, but there were times he wished she'd been a boy instead.

"Not this time you won't," Scarlett cried, squirming out of her father's hold. She stalked across the room to the bar cart. "I'm already married to him!"

"But you're never going to live under the same roof with him. Now I'll see to that!" Gerald rejoined, following behind her.

Scarlett looked to the heavens for fortitude, which the heavens steadfastly refused to provide. She whirled back around to face her ridiculously determined father. "Can't you get it through your head? Ashley and I are _married_. Definitely, legally, actually married." Her hand chopped the air, punctuating each adverb as she gathered steam. "It's over, it's finished. There's not a thing you can do about it. I'm over 21, and so is he." She tossed long black hair over one shoulder, and picked up her drink.

"Would it interest you to know that while you've been on board I've been making inquiries to have your marriage annulled?"

Scarlett looked at him skeptically over her glass, then took a deliberately nonchalant sip. "Annulled. I'll have something to say about that. And so will Ashley!"

"I'll expect him to," Gerald replied, irritatingly placid and smug.

A knock sounded at the door, and Scarlett watched as Sam and some other men wheeled in a tray full of covered dishes. It smelled _heavenly_. She swallowed.

"Ah, the vittles!" Gerald exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Come in, come in."

"I thought I told you not to bring any food in here," Scarlett said, advancing on them like an angry lioness. She took some satisfaction watching them retreat hastily.

"Now, wait a minute," Gerald interrupted. "This isn't for you." he told her, motioning the waiters to bring back the trays. Scarlett couldn't help but smile as they did, keeping their eyes on her like scared little mice, before scurrying out of the room.

Gerald sat down and tucked a napkin into his shirt, making a dramatic showing of sniffing the air.

"Smart, aren't you?" Scarlett asked, her arms crossed over her chest. " _So_ subtle." She smirked, then swallowed again. Good _night_ , why did the food have to smell so good?

"Strategy, missy." He answered, smug once more.

"And you are such a _strategist_ ," she remarked derisively. (She would have used air quotes, but they hadn't been invented yet.) "Sending your goons down to drag me away from that justice of the peace: your idea of strategy is to use a lead pipe!"

"I've won a lot of arguments with a lead pipe," he said, now peppering his steak.

Sensing that she wasn't winning, Scarlett swung to another tack. "Outside of the fact that you don't like him, you haven't got a thing against Ashley!"

"He's a fake, Scarlett." Gerald spoke, his voice patient, if a little tired.

A fake! How dare he. Ashley was… Ashley was the playmate from her childhood, before he went away. She hadn't seen him in _years_ , and suddenly there he was, the dashing hero of all her dreams. A fake! Oh, how _could_ Pa!

"He's one of the best flyers in the country!" she offered, angry that she could not think of a better argument.

"He's not right for you, and you know it," Gerald returned. "You married him only because I told you not to."

"You've been telling me what not to do ever since I could remember!" Scarlett said, _quite_ dramatically. It was true enough, however—Pa had always spoiled her, while her mother had been strict. When she died, Pa had shocked her utterly, taking to Ellen's diktats with gusto. He still spoiled her, but he had discovered a core of strength inside himself which surprised her—and himself, she suspected.

"That's because you've always been a stubborn idiot," he returned without missing a beat.

"I come from a long line of stubborn idiots!"

"Katie Scarlett, don't shout so," Gerald said, looking up from his steak for the first time. "You may work up an appetite."

"I'll shout if I want to! I'll _scream_ if I want to!"

"Alright, scream!" Gerald said, his patience finally wearing down.

"If you don't let me off this boat, I'll break every piece of furniture in this room!"

Gerald slowly got up from his chair, holding a fork full of food. "Here, have a nice juicy piece of steak. You don't even have to eat it. Just smell it. It's a poem." (Yeats, of course.)

This had to work, Gerald thought: they'd never make it all the way to South America with an angry, hungry Scarlett.

It did not work. Instead, Scarlett knocked the fork out of his hand. Heaving with fury, she stood looking at him for a second, and then upended the table holding all the food.

Shocked by the wastefulness of her action, Gerald reacted poorly. His temper finally snapped, and even as his hand made contact with her cheek, he regretted it. He'd have given almost anything—enduring marriage to Ashley aside—for the synapses in his brain to have fired just a hair faster to stop him. He had not slapped her hard, but that wasn't the point.

Scarlett stood completely still, speechless for a moment at the wholly unexpected harshness. Then, without a word, she turned and ran out the door, pushing past the men who had since returned to their eavesdropping stations.

Gerald followed quickly, calling after her, "Katie Scarlett!"

Scarlett had already climbed onto the rail when he made it up to the deck. She glared back at him, jaw set, for half a second, before executing a perfect dive into the bay.

~~~nb~~~

Many minutes later, after a riotous confusion of orders to lower the boats had cost them precious time, a small boat puttered its way back to the yacht, as if it knew the wrath that likely awaited it there, and wished to prolong the inevitable as long as possible.

Gerald was waiting at the top step, as the officer grabbed the railing. "She got away from us, sir." he admitted.

"Of course she did," Gerald replied, annoyed yet suffused with pride. "She's too smart for you." Turning to another crew member, he ordered, "Send a wire to the Lovington Detective Agency. _'Daughter escaped again'_!"


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: I'm so glad y'all like this story! It's so much fun to write. Amee, to quote another favorite movie of mine: as you wish! KateMartin, does that mean you want me to post my other winter/Christmas story in June? ;) Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone!_

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Chapter 2

Scarlett watched, her breath caught in her throat, from behind a column, as a sweet little old lady purchased a bus ticket to New York.

She'd spent all day at the bus station, hoping it was such an inconspicuous mode of travel that her father's hired men wouldn't even look for her here. It should have been wonderfully freeing, but Pa was entirely too smart for his own good, and she couldn't risk simply wandering about in the open. Instead of reading magazines, buying her own chocolate bars with her own money (or sort of her own money, at any rate), and spending the day however she wanted while dreaming of Ashley, she'd hidden out in different ladies' waiting rooms.

Dreaming of Ashley still, of course, but ladies' waiting rooms were not as interesting as she had hoped. The magazines repeated themselves, and she tired of reading them quickly.

But, at least she'd run into this little old woman, a Miss Fontaine, she introduced herself. She had to be 80 if she was a day, but she'd said _Miss_ so proudly she'd practically hissed. Scarlett had sketched out only the vaguest of details on her situation, still on the lookout for spies.

"Oh, a caper!" the old lady cackled, clapping her hands together in joy. "Dearie, of course I'll help. I don't usually approve of them young ladies running away to marry themselves to some man don't deserve them. But seeing as you're already married, and just trying to reunite with him…" she paused, assessing Scarlett critically.

Scarlett raised her chin and looked her square in the eye, nerves squirming inside cool steel. She could not help feeling like this woman would see through her. _See through to what?_ she reminded herself. She was an independent woman, happily in love with the man of her dreams.

"How did you come to be separated from him, again?" Miss Fontaine asked.

"Oh, it's a long story," Scarlett said, airily. "I came down here to visit my father, but then he was called away on business. So when I wanted to travel back, I couldn't reach him to—" she stopped, hoping Miss Fontaine could fill in the rest for herself. It was the best she could do, on her feet. She'd always been a terrible liar.

Miss Fontaine patted her hand. "I think there's something you hain't told me, missy. But that's alright, I s'pose your business is your business. There's something about you I like—you got spirit, and too many girls these days hain't any spirit."

Miss Fontaine was more firecracker than doddering fool, Scarlett realized, but so long as she went along with her plan, Scarlett didn't much mind. Scarlett found herself disappointed that the old woman wasn't traveling to New York as well, but she had readily agreed to buy Scarlett's ticket. If the goons were watching the ticket counters, they'd be disappointed. Now, as long as they weren't watching everyone boarding all the buses. But in this busy station, that would be impossible, she tried to reason to herself. Well, it was a risk, but one she simply had to take.

Miss Fontaine was making her way back over, and Scarlett quickly tried to appear nonchalant. Not that it would do much good. The old lady knew something was fishy—and she had right from the start. But she didn't want to pique too much curiosity. And Miss Fontaine couldn't tell the goons anything she didn't know.

"Here's your ticket," she said, handing Scarlett the long folds of paper and her change.

"Thank you very much." In a fit of generosity, Scarlett gave the woman a dollar for her trouble. She'd be with Ashley again soon.

"Oh, thank you," Miss Fontaine replied, as Scarlett started to walk quickly to the New York bus' terminal. "Mind he deserves you now!" she heard the old lady call out behind her. She couldn't help but smile wistfully, and waved back. Why, of course he most certainly did!

She brushed past a group of men clustered around a bank of phone booths. A squat little man was trying to squeeze through unsuccessfully. "What's going on here?" he asked, pompously. "I am a doctor!" he added, as if such an indignant proclamation should cause crowds of people to part in waves.

One of the men in the huddle turned to him. "Shhh," he offered elegantly. "There's a man biting a dog in there."

"Demon liquor," the doctor muttered as he walked away in search of a different telephone booth.

The last thing Scarlett heard as the crowd grew more distant at her back was a deep, sonorous voice, incongruously saying, "In a pig's eye, you will!" She smiled in spite of herself.

~~~nb~~~

Rhett was not entirely sure how he had acquired the small posse of men who had cheered him on during his phone call, and were now escorting him to his bus, absurdly shouting, "Make way for the king! Make way for the king!" But they had proven themselves useful, buying him a drink, and even offering to pay for his call. They had all laughed and cheered when he told them he was calling the boss collect. (Calling collect is a thing that used to exist, whereby the person being called had to pay for the call. You may be familiar with the concept because of the hit podcast _Serial_. But back to the thirties.)

Rhett was not exactly poor, but he'd been… _involved_ , so to speak, with Prohibition to some extent (or at least, the black market that had sprung up around it). The prosecution of Al Capone weighed heavily in his wallet, leaving him with certain inaccessible quantities of money. Not exactly poor, but not exactly liquid. Something about his face made people trust him, though, and he could talk his way into or out of anything, so with the dear twenty-first amendment rendering his old occupation obsolete, he'd turned to journalism. It hadn't been bad, either: lots of travel and meeting new people all the time. Even the dull ones were interesting in their fervent admiration for the status quo.

Times were getting harder, and even though his boss was a harmless, genial old man, his desire for fluffy human interest stories had started to grate. Rhett was no hard-hitting reporter, but recounting the latest society balls, even with sardonic amusement, wasn't sitting well with him, when he had to pass shoeless children with grubby hands out, to get to the fancy hotel hosting the party. It was this restlessness that had led to the current dust-up: He'd been drinking more than usual one night, and wrote a piece about the publisher's nephew, and a certain situation said nephew had found himself in with a certain chorus girl at the Club Ambassador. Rhett had gone straight from his room to the telegraph office and wired his story along. Another night, a clearer head might have prevailed. But it wasn't another night, and he didn't think telling the truth would land him in such hot water. Unfortunately, someone in New York had alerted the nephew to the story coming in, and so Rhett had found himself in Miami, unceremoniously fired, no more per diem, and just enough cash to probably comfortably get him back home. As long as nothing happened.

He stepped up into the bus, and made his way to the back for a seat. To his dismay, he saw that only one seat, the very last, was currently unoccupied. At least by a human. Instead, newspapers were stacked chest-high, covering both seats.

Punctilious as ever, he moved back down the aisle to find the driver already in conversation. Not so punctiliously, he interrupted. "Driver, if you'll be so good as to move these papers, I'll have a seat."

The bus driver apparently had never been a pupil of the Eleanor Butler School for How to Behave in Polite Society, because he gave Rhett a cursory glance and went right back to his clipboard without muttering a word.

Rhett smirked, and walked back down to the newspapers. Each bundle made a very pleasing _thunk_ ing sound as he threw it out the window and it hit the ground.

 _Thunk._

 _Thunk._

 _Thunk_.

Most agreeable to the ear.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Aha. So, the bus driver could talk. "What do you think you're doing? What's the idea, throwing them out?"

Rhett paused, midway through loading his suitcase into the overhead rack. He returned Bus Driver's cursory glance, but afforded him the courtesy of a reply. ( _Somebody_ had been a pupil of the Eleanor Butler School for How to Behave in Polite Society.)

"Oh, the papers? Well, I never did like the idea of sitting on newspapers. I did it once, and all the headlines came off on my white pants. Nobody bought a paper that day—they just followed me around all over town, reading the news off the seat of my pants." He felt someone brush past him.

By this time, their scene was starting to attract attention from the other passengers. Bus Driver had not been amused by his story, which seemed unfair to Rhett. That had been a quality yarn!

"Oh yeah?"

"Now that's a brilliant answer. Why didn't I think of it? Our conversation could've been over long ago!" Rhett couldn't resist needling him.

"Oh yeah?"

"Hey, if you keep that up, we're not going to get anywhere." Rhett resumed securing his suitcase overhead.

"Oh _yeah?_ "

He turned to Bus Driver, and decided to play to his audience a little. He sagged a little, as if from a hard blow. "Ya got me. _YEAH_." The audience laughed, and the flustered driver fumed slightly and stalked away.

Rhett turned back to his seat, only to find it once again occupied.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Just a note on process: sometimes I'll use GWTW details, sometimes It Happened One Night, sometimes my own whole-cloth. I'm working on keeping the essence of characters/relationships/dynamics the same, but some details will have to change. For example, I had to jink with their ages here: from the screenplay, Ellie is in her early twenties, which would make Rhett around forty, but Clark Gable was only 33 (and certainly looks no older) when they shot the movie. Hence, the jinking._

* * *

Chapter 3

A pretty young woman was in the seat nearest the window, looking intently—almost paranoidally—out of it. She was biting her lip, and her left hand was clutched tightly around the small valise on the seat next to her. She looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five. Not really that young, come to think of it, compared to his thirty-two, but he'd been out on his own for half his life already. The delicate flower who had thefted his seat instead had a decidedly pampered air about her. He wondered if she'd attended any of the balls he'd covered back when he had a job. She was also, on further notice, not stunningly beautiful, something he doubted she'd ever heard in her life. But she had an interesting face—something about it made a person want to look at it more. He could see how such a statement would be unacceptable as a compliment, but if the society pages had taught him anything, it was that interesting was a price above rubies compared to beautiful.

"Excuse me, lady," he began. The woman started, and looked away from the window, up at him. "But that upon which you sit is mine."

She looked down at the seat, blushed, and raised flashing eyes at him. After a moment to master her temper, she raised one eyebrow imperiously at this odd, formal little speech. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, each syllable soaked with disdain.

 _Definitely_ a society belle.

"Listen," Rhett explained, "I put up a stiff fight for that seat. So if it's just the same to you—" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " _Scram._ "

Scarlett had never been spoken to with so little diffidence by anyone in her life except her father. Even childhood playmates who teased her had been a little awestruck by her. It was one of many things in life that, until now, she had accepted without question.

Now this impudent little (oh fine, so he wasn't little, not little at all, he was marvelously tall, even stooped over in a bus aisle, if you must be a stickler about it!) man had told her to _scram_ —oh, what a terribly uncouth word! Ellen would roll over in her _grave_ if it ever crossed Scarlett's lips—and it sparkled through her like golden Champagne. The nerve! She longed to take him down a peg or two.

She hadn't paid attention to his conversation with the bus driver, except to know that Impudent had won, so Driver was sure to be on her side. She leaned forward in her seat, and called out, "Excuse me, driver." He turned around to her, and she smiled enough to show her dimple. Men liked that dimple. "Are these seats reserved?"

The driver smiled back at her, saw that Impudent was her antagonist, and smirked. "Naw, miss. First come, first serve."

"Thank you." She smiled again, deepening the dimple.

"Hey, driver." Impudent was talking again. "These seats accommodate two people, don't they?"

"Maybe they do, and maybe they don't," Driver answered as he walked away.

Impudent leaned into her seat, plucked up her valise with one large hand, and set it on the floor. "I beg your pardon," she insisted. Drat all! She had already said that; why couldn't she think of a better response? Not enough practice dealing with people of vulgar manners. Who would have thought that would be a _problem_? She frowned, her lips unconsciously pursed in a delicate moue.

Rhett was amused at the play of emotions across her expressive face. Delicate Flower was getting more and more interesting. "Scoot over," he motioned with his hand. "This is a ' _maybe they do_.'"

And to avoid nearly being sat on, Scarlett did. _Three pegs_ , she counted to herself. Impudent lounged his long form into the cramped space, and immediately fished in his pockets for a cigarette and a match. She stared straight ahead, determined to be uninterested. She thought she could feel his eyes on her face.

"If you were to ask me real nice, I might put that bag of yours up in the bin." Scarlett turned back, her mouth set in a very straight line. The idea! That she would put herself in his debt for a suitcase—the nerve! _Four pegs._ A bell rang, and she knew she was running out of time. With quick jerking movements, she grabbed her valise, and squirmed out of the seat to do it herself.

She had just managed the task—a feat to be proud of, short as she was—when the bus pulled away. The swaying movement rocked her off-balance, and to her eternal humiliation she found herself unceremoniously dumped in Impudent's lap. To his credit, he reached out and caught her with his arms so that she did not totally fall. But she was in no mood to give him credit, especially when she saw how his eyes sparkled at her. He had such dark eyes, it seemed impossible that they could still sparkle, and yet—

Fuming once more, she wrenched herself off him and back into her seat. _Five_.

"Next time you drop in, bring your folks," he offered, before resuming lighting his cheroot. Six!

She angled herself away from him, resolutely looking out the window, even though it offered no interesting landscape. It was, after all, nighttime. New York suddenly seemed very far away from Miami. This was going to be a long trip.

~~nb~~

Rhett puffed on his cigarette for some time, and watched the flower out of the corner of his eye. There was no need to be sly, for sitting ramrod-straight and diagonally in the seat as she was, she wouldn't have noticed him even outright staring. Except that he sensed an undercurrent of shrewdness to her otherwise sheltered demeanor. Best not to risk any further ire quite yet.

Her shoulders twitched with tension, once. Twice. She was obviously uncomfortable, and stubborn enough to want to stay that way. Several minutes later, a third twitch. Finally, she relented, and relaxed against the back of the seat. Still angled away from him. Rhett felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, as if being physically spurned by her, a perfect stranger, would hurt him. _Dear heart, how that cut me!_ Hardly. Well, if she was going to willingly give up part of her seat out of spite, he would take it. He shifted, his right leg sloping toward her and sighed as he felt the muscles stretch pleasantly. After several more minutes had passed, he dozed off into a light, but not altogether unpleasant, sleep.

 _Rest station, fifteen minutes! Rest station! Fifteen minutes!_

He woke with a start, and saw that the flower had fallen asleep at last, too. She was waking up, and rolling her shoulders from where they had been uncomfortably jammed into the seat. She turned around, piercing him with very green eyes. She no longer looked furious. Caught at the back of the bus as they were, they had to wait for most of the passengers to stand up, stretch, and move down the aisle. There was nothing to do, really, except stare right back at her. He wondered what she would do.

To his satisfaction, she did blush, the faintest pink coloring her pale skin. But before she could do anything else, the bus was nearly empty. Always the gentleman, he moved his legs out into the aisle so she could get out first, and maybe so that she would fall into his lap again as she did so. The pink of her cheeks grew brighter. Without a word, she scooted over him, as gracefully as one can crawl over a person in a narrow seat. She did not fall this time.

She walked partway up the aisle and stopped. She looked back at him, then up at her suitcase, and back at him. She walked back, heaved her suitcase down, and took it with her. His laugh rang through the bus as she walked away.

He unfolded himself from the seat, and decided to use the ten or so minutes before they departed again to stretch his legs.

He found a nice tree to lean against, and took out a cigarette. The flower was standing right next to the door of the bus, as if to lose contact with it would make it disappear altogether. Her suitcase rested near her feet.

Rhett straightened as a man slowly came up behind her. He snatched the suitcase and darted away. Rhett gave chase, but as fast as his reflexes were, the thief had the advantage of prior knowledge and distance on him. He ran flat-out for a minute, but lost the rat in the darkness.

He made his way back to the bus, dejected that he had failed, and annoyed with the girl for not keeping a better watch on her belongings.

"He got away," he offered as he stopped in front of her, by way of an explanation. "I suddenly found myself in the middle of the brush and not a sign of the skunk." Was he _wheezing?_ That was unacceptable.

The flower took a puff of her cigarette as she looked him up and down. "I don't know what you're raving about, young man, and furthermore, I'm not interested." She made to turn away. Why, of all the—

"Of all the—" he paused, studying her. "Perhaps it might interest you to know that your bag's gone."

She turned and looked behind her, then jumped. "God's nightgown! It's gone!"

Rhett chuckled. "I knew you'd catch on eventually."

The flower looked around her helplessly. "What am I going to do now?" she wondered, more for her benefit than his, he assumed.

"Don't tell me your ticket was in it." She looked at him, and seemed startled.

"No, no, I have that alright," she said, looking down at the small clutch in her hands. "But—my money… All I have here is four dollars."

She really did look distressed, and Rhett found himself wishing to alleviate it. Odd. "You can wire for some more money when you get to Jacksonville." A girl like her had to have a husband or father ready to send gold at the drop of a hat.

"No, I ca—" she started, before interrupting herself. Also odd. "Y- yes, yes, I will." she finished.

"I'll tell the driver about your bag," he offered, and made to walk away.

"No!" she cried, grabbing his arm and stopping him. "No, thank you, I'd rather you didn't." She actually seemed more distressed by having the theft reported than the theft itself. Curiouser and curiouser. Just who was she?

"Don't be a fool, you've lost your bag, the company ought to make good. What's your name?"

"I don't want it reported!"

Maybe she wasn't used to traveling—certainly not on her own. Maybe she didn't know how this kind of thing worked. "That's ridiculous, the company will take care of it."

"Do you understand English? Would you please keep out of my affairs! I want to be left alone." And with that, she turned and walked away.

The unmitigated gall— When she had practically accused _him_ of potential theft— When he was actually trying to be a gentleman!

"Why, you ungrateful brat." he said to himself.

So much for atavism.

The announcer called for them to board, and Rhett walked back in. He half-hoped the flower would miss it.

No such luck, however, when he spied her making her way down the aisle as he settled into their seat. She stopped when she saw him (where did she expect him to be, exactly?) and quickly slid into the nearest available seat.

Rhett smirked, and put his feet up across the seat. Fine by him. He'd sleep better this way.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

Chapter 4

For the first time since she had dived off Gerald's yacht, Scarlett truly felt scared. The thrill of freedom was getting tarnished with responsibility, and she was not sure what she would do. She still had her ticket, and thank heavens for that. She could stay on the bus that would bring her back to Ashley, and she would be safe again. But how long would it take to get to New York? Was four dollars enough for meals the whole way? She didn't know how much things cost. She… she could go hungry, she supposed. She hated being hungry. If only she hadn't already been on a hunger strike when she got away! She had eaten a little in the bus station, waiting and hiding, but the delighted independence and worried nerves over being found out had produced a stomach too excited to eat much.

Now her bag was gone, and Impudent was being nice to her, and it was all too much. She just _had_ to get to New York. If she could only be with Ashley again, she wouldn't have a care in the world. She wondered why that man was trying to be nice to her. Men only wanted one thing from girls, Ellen had always said. The problem was, Ellen had never really explained what that one thing was. However nice the man was being over her bag, there was still the possibility that he would want to take liberties with her. He certainly looked like the kind of man who liked to take liberties with women. Or maybe he wanted something else entirely. What if he was, after all, a spy? Were goons usually so handso— tall? She preferred to think of them as short and bow-legged.

Whether it stemmed from true concern or reconnaissance, she couldn't have him asking her more questions. She found herself wanting to unburden her whole story to him; his broad shoulders were so capab— wide. No, she couldn't risk it, she couldn't get too comfortable with anyone.

She had also been unpardonably rude to him just now, although it had felt _quite_ satisfying to take him down all six pegs. Except that she now seemed indebted to him again, anyway. Even if he hadn't managed to return her bag.

As she walked down the aisle to her seat, she glanced up. He was looking at her, and he didn't seem pleased. She wasn't scared—wasn't scared of anyone, certainly not some smooth-talking stranger with sparkling eyes who was both ill-mannered and thoughtful. But that didn't mean she had to sit next to him. She turned and sat in the nearest available seat, and tried to get comfortable for the long night of travel ahead.

~~~nb~~~

She dozed fitfully. The man sitting next to her could have taken up both seats by himself. And now that he was sleeping, he kept leaning more and more onto her. She shoved at his form, but the more she pushed, the heavier he seemed to rest against her. She twisted around, hoping to find another empty seat. But luck remained steadfastly faithless as ever, because the only empty space on the whole bus was next to her fr— that man.

Pride kept her smushed into her seat for several more minutes, until the need to be comfortable—that, and the ability to breathe—finally won out. She squeezed out from under the slumbering lump next to-slash-on her, and made her way to the back with quick steps. By some miracle, _he_ was at least sleeping. Just because she was sitting next to him didn't mean she wanted to talk to him. His hand was on the seat, and she had to pick it up as she moved to sit down. His hand was large, the skin tanned and slightly calloused. The hand of a man who had been in the _world._ He felt so… _alive_ , and she blushed at such a foolish thought. Well, of course he felt alive. What was she expecting? Still, it wasn't everyone you encountered who seemed to have a current running through his very skin. She must be _very_ tired, indeed, for what was she going on about? Ashley's hands felt the same, she was sure. If she could just get to New York…

She leaned against the slight wall at her left and sighed. Luck chose that moment to abandon her, yet again, because the man stirred in his seat, blinking several times at her confusedly. She stared right back, refusing to be cowed. Indeed, why shouldn't she sit anywhere she desired? She felt a blush tingle in her cheeks, but did not look away. His eyes drifted shut again, and she felt herself relax. He was, after all, only a man, and she knew how to handle men.

~~~nb~~~

Rhett drowsed, in and out of sleep, for an hour or so. Whenever his eyes opened, they were drawn inexorably, like a damned honing beacon, to where the flower was sitting. She _was_ only a few seats ahead, right in his line of sight, really. He simply couldn't help that he saw her so easily from where he was. It had nothing at all to do with her interesting face, or insufferable demeanor. But, as he was helpless to avoid seeing her anyway, he reasoned to himself that it was not his fault if he continued to watch.

The flower was uncomfortable. The marshmallow she was sitting next to was alarmingly unaffected by the bus jostling over rough roads. He watched her try to push him off, but he only slept on, leaning more and more against her. She twisted around in her seat, and he quickly shut his eyes. He knew where the only empty seat on the bus was, and exactly what mental struggle she must be going through at the moment. He dared a peek and saw that she was sitting forward again. Choosing pride over comfort… it was an interesting development, and one he did not quite expect. She had struck him as a creature who, above all, valued comfort.

He liked being surprised by people. Especially very pampered ones. It did not happen very often.

His eyes drifted shut again, but a movement disrupted him. She was getting out of her seat, after all. He smiled, and eased his left hand onto the seat she was about to occupy, then pretended to be asleep. He couldn't resist watching her walk down the aisle, his eyes the narrowest of slits. Her hips swayed enticingly with each step. He wondered if she even knew she did it anymore, or if that particular charm was subconscious now. Not that it affected _him_ in any way, of course. He relaxed his eyelids, his whole face, as she neared thei— his seat.

He felt a soft hand under his wrist, a warm thumb slipping into his palm as the flower picked up his hand and placed it in his lap. He almost startled "awake" at the contact, expected though it was. Her touch was gentle but purposeful, and she felt so… alive. Foolish thought, he chided himself. Except that for all the society belles he'd met, none of them had ever felt so _electric_. They were much more likely to have cold dead fish hands, and the flower was no cold dead fish.

He allowed himself to concentrate on the lingering sensation where her fingertips still sparkled on his skin—a simple matter of chemistry, of course—and time for her to make herself comfortable. Then, biting back a grin, he slowly opened his eyes and blinked confusedly at her. Twice. To her credit, she did not lower her gaze, barely even blushed, this time. But he was in no mood to give her credit—spoiled little thing that she was, insulting his honor (certainly, it was tarnished, but _she_ didn't know that), not thanking him, and then not even having the grace to look embarrassed at taking his seat.

He shrugged off the thought. If they were going to be quasi-companions, perhaps he could tease her in the morning. Find out a little about this mad dash of hers. All in good time…


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for reviewing!

* * *

Chapter 5

Scarlett relaxed on the soft bench in front of the small stove, and drew the blanket tighter around her. She shivered in delight, curling her toes as she stretched. It was wonderful to be so warm. It had been so cold up on the deck. The blanket was soft, too, and she rubbed her cheek against it contentedly.

Ashley was in the kitchen preparing hot toddies. Except he wasn't really Ashley, he was taller, and had dark hair and dark eyes. He was a stranger, but he was such a comfortable stranger. It felt like she'd known him all her life. So he had to be Ashley, right? And this was their honeymoon.

She decided not to think about it. She felt deliciously cozy, and didn't want to fret over who exactly was preparing a toddy or cider as long as somebody was.

She heard footsteps, and smiled. Ashley-who-was-not-Ashley entered the room, and in a bored, nasal voice, shouted, but from very far away, " _Jacksonville! Thirty minutes for breakfast!_ "

Scarlett closed her eyes and burrowed into the blanket. Her hand was starting to hurt from its grasp on the fabric. Ashley who was not Ashley disappeared. Why had the boat stopped?

She opened her eyes reluctantly. Her hand wasn't clutching a blanket, it was a… _lapel_. The stove from her dream had been that _man_. She scrambled to sit up, away from him, her mind working around how to regain her rightful superiority. Here Ellen had warned her against men who took liberties, and she, Scarlett, had slept on a stranger—freely _giving_ liberties (if that was such a thing?) She tried to laugh it off. His eyes were sparkling again.

Ducking her head out the window, she commented, "We're in Jacksonville, aren't we?"

He nodded. He was smiling. Damn her liberties! A long scarf of fine wool was around her neck. She unwound it and handed it back to him. His coat was laid over her, too. "That was foolish of me." Was there no end to his terrible consideration? She pushed at it, at the same time he plucked it neatly from her. "Wh- why didn't you shove me away?"

"Oh, I hated to wake you. You look kind of pretty asleep."

 _Kind of_ pretty! Of all the nasty things to—

She looked away from his smile—too smug by half, she was sure. Even if he did have nice teeth. His mustache was impertinent. She'd never found mustaches very attractive before. Not that she did now, either, of course.

She realized the bus was empty, save the two of them and her friend, the driver. "Why, everybody's gone!" The man _hmm_ ed in response. Scarlett took out her mirror and quickly smoothed her hair.

"How about some breakfast?"

Under no circumstances could she let him buy her breakfast, she was already in his debt, and she hated being indebted to people. And what must he think of her, sleeping like that! He would think he could take all manner of liberties if he paid for her meal. Besides, the Windsor Hotel was not far, and its chef made the most to die for, silky, scrumptious crêpes this side of Paris. Her mouth was already watering thinking about them.

"Oh, n- no. No, thank you." she replied, straightening her hat. "I'm going to the Windsor Hotel."

"The Windsor?" he asked incredulously. "You'll never make it back in time. We leave in half an hour."

She smiled, and hoped she didn't look too pitying. People waited for her. She stood and stretched her legs. "Oh no, they'll wait for me."

She walked down the aisle toward the driver. How nice of him to be standing there so she could tell him! "Driver, I'm going to be a few minutes late. Be sure to wait for me." She dimpled at him.

His voice stopped her as she started down the stairs. "Oh yeah?"

She turned around in confusion. "Yes!" she replied indignantly. Just for good measure, she smiled at him again and her eyelids fluttered ever so briefly.

Then she let her nearly growling stomach lead her to the Windsor.

~~~nb~~~

Rhett chose a seat at the counter by a window where he could keep an eye on the bus. He ordered bacon and eggs, a donut, and coffee. The service was fast, and in little time, he tucked into the meal. He wondered if the flower had even made it to the Windsor yet. A fool's errand! She couldn't possibly think she would be only a few minutes late. And she couldn't possibly think that, no matter how few minutes late she was, a bus would wait for her. Of course, she _was_ a spoiled society belle. Nothing she could do should surprise him. Still, no matter how many times you met the upper crust, their sense of entitlement could almost always astonish you. (At times, our hero conveniently forgets his own upper crust society background. This is one of those times.)

The bacon was hot and he sniffed it appreciatively. Crispy, too, he noted as he munched on a strip. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. He looked out toward the bus again and saw a young boy hawking newspapers. He should've picked one up before he sat down, but he'd made a beeline to get something to eat. Not that he wanted to give his money back to his erstwhile employer, but he liked to know what was going on in the world. He looked around to see if anyone had left his paper behind.

A man two stools down was just about finishing his perusal, from the looks of it. He debated for a minute whether he should ask for the paper or hope the man left it. He looked like a friendly enough sort.

"Do you mind if I take a look at that when you're finished?"

The man turned and smiled. _Bingo._ Rhett liked being right about people.

"Not at all, my good man. Here you are," he replied, and handed over the paper. "That's something about the girl, eh? I hope they find her."

Rhett feigned concern and said his thanks as the old gentleman wished him a good day and left. Then he turned the paper over to the front.

The cover story made his eyes gleam. He set the paper down on the counter and picked up his donut. He dunked it in his coffee, and took a bite. As he chewed thoughtfully, he began to formulate a plan.

~~~nb~~~

Scarlett's crêpes were everything she had dreamed they would be. The last time she'd been here was with Pa, and she felt a pang of homesickness as she thought of him. She missed him, but she quickly reminded herself that she was angry at him for his terrible unfairness to Ashley. No, she did _not_ miss him. (Him being Pa—not Ashley. Of course, she missed Ashley very much. Devastatingly—why do you ask?)

The waiter brought her check, and she counted out some of her coins. Paying for things with her own money was a thrilling new experience. It did make her stomach flip to spend so much of her money on one meal. But it was the _Windsor_ , she thought to herself in justification. She simply wouldn't eat at any more hotels.

A beautiful grandfather clock in the tiled lobby informed her it was 7:40. Ten minutes already, and she had to walk back. She quickened her steps.

The walk back seemed to take longer than she expected. The sun was bright, and it made her think of her dream again. It had been marvelous to be so wonderfully warm! It was unnerving. _Ashley_ , she reminded herself. _Ash- ley, Ash- ley_ , she thought with each step that brought her closer to her beloved. Golden-haired and dreamy-eyed, he complemented her looks so well. What a handsome pair they made! Or would make, as soon as she was back by his side.

She saw the bus terminal up ahead and smiled. _Soon!_ her heart sang.

Her bus was at the far end from where she entered, but great glass doors stood at the other entrance. As her heels clicked across the floor, a small panic sent butterflies flitting around her stomach. Her bus was not where it had been. Perhaps they had just moved it. She ran to the door, and pushed it open. No New York bus! Where could it have gone?

She whirled around and saw a steward in uniform. "Where's the bus to New York?"

The man rocked back on his heels, a bit too jolly for Scarlett's taste. "Why, it left about twenty minutes ago."

"But that's ridiculous!" she began to explain. "I was on that bus! I told them to wait."

"I'm sorry, miss, but it's gone," he stated, with not even a drop of sympathy. Scarlett felt her temper start to fray. And then it got worse. From behind the steward she heard a voice she was already too familiar with.

"Good morning," her impudent "friend" (fiend, more like) said. "Remember me?" _All too well_ , she silently fumed. "I'm the fellow you slept on last night." Scarlett's face grew hot. The absolute arrogance!

"Seems to me I've already thanked you for that." She turned back to the steward. "What time is the next bus?"

"8 o'clock tonight."

"Eight o'cl—! That's twelve hours from now!" she cried. But though her powers of mathematics were undeniably true, it did not change the transportation schedule of the bus company.

"I'm sorry, miss." the steward said, sounding extremely not sorry, before walking away. Leaving her alone with _him_.

"What's the matter?" he asked, adopting the kind of tone used for a small child having a tantrum. She longed to introduce her purse to his face. "Wouldn't the old meanies wait for you?"

Arrogant, even when he was in the same predicament as her! He was insufferable. "What are you so excited about? You missed it, too." she pointed out.

"Yeah, I missed it, too." he said, dejectedly. Something about it his words sent a shiver up her spine.

"Don't tell me you did it on my account." Ellen was right! This was what happened to girls who gave liberties! "I— hope you haven't any idea that— what happened last night—" She couldn't finish a sentence, and she felt sure she was taking the wrong approach. She tried to sound grateful without condescension. (She failed.) "Now look here, young man. You needn't concern yourself about me. I can take care of myself just fine." Her words seemed to have no effect on him. He just stared right back at her.

Then he responded, "You're doing a pretty sloppy job of it. Here's your ticket." And to her chagrin, he did indeed pull a ticket out of his pocket.

"My ticket…"

"I found it on the seat." He explained.

Scarlett quickly riffled through her purse, but unfortunately, did not find her ticket anywhere inside. She felt sheepish; she _hated_ feeling sheepish. "Thank you," she said quietly. In his debt again! How would she ever regain the upper hand with him now? "It must have fallen out of my purse," she offered. She folded the long slip of paper and was putting it in a more secure pocket, when he said something that made her blood freeze and pool in her stomach.

"You'll never get away with it, Miss O'Hara."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: A pre-Festivus miracle! Happy holidays, y'all!

* * *

Chapter 6

Rhett was pleased to watch the flower—Miss O'Hara, he corrected himself—start in shock, but then she pasted a bright smile on, anyway.

"What are you talking about?" She laughed lightly, and he was amused when it sounded very forced.

"I said you'd never get away with it." he repeated. "For starters, did anyone ever tell you you're a terrible liar? Your father will stop you before you get halfway to New York."

The flower blanched. Then she leaned forward and said, a touch too insistently (a sure tell, Rhett noted—if the flower really hadn't been Miss O'Hara, she wouldn't have been bothered by the mistake), "You must have me confused with somebody else."

"Who are you kidding?" Rhett asked. "It's all over the front page," at which point, he helpfully proffered the newspaper with the two-inch headline and the flower's picture splashed underneath. _'Rich Father Spreads Dragnet to Keep Her from Joining Aviator-Husband in New York'_ read the smaller headline below. Rhett could've written a better blurb in his sleep. And in even smaller type, _'He shall never be my son-in-law,' says magnate._ Rhett smirked to himself. Mr. O'Hara sounded like a smart man.

The flower gripped the paper, turning it over, as if through sheer force of will she could make it say something else. He stood, pocketing his cigar case inside his jacket, and looked over her shoulder. "You know, I've always been curious to know what kind of a girl would marry a front-page aviator like Ashley Wilkes." The flower turned and lifted her chin. She was endearingly stubborn, for a brat. "Take my advice—" he paused for dramatic effect, "grab the first bus back to Miami." he continued. "That guy's a phony." he added, nodding toward the paper.

Her eyes flashed, the clear green darkening with anger. She folded the paper up with quick, jerking movements and shoved it back at him. "I didn't ask for your advice."

Rhett sighed. "That's right. You didn't." He took the paper back, deliberately brushing her fingers with his. She snatched her hand away at the contact, and he grinned wolfishly, before turning to pick up his suitcase. As he made to walk off, however, she clutched at his arm. Rather like she had clutched his lapel while she slept. It had been a new experience, waking up to her, being slept… on—and not an entirely unpleasant one. Her perfume wasn't the cloying sort one so often noticed at balls, like being socked in the face with a bouquet. It was light and pleasing, with a hint of lemons, wholly incongruous with her extremely high opinion of herself. Even so, he couldn't resist needling her. He looked down at her hand and back to her upturned face, and raised one lofty eyebrow.

"Y- you're not going to tell my father, are you?"

"What for?"

The flower removed her hand from his arm, and regarded him suspiciously. "If you play your cards right, you probably could get some money out of it."

Rhett rocked back on his heels, and studiously stroked his mustache. "I never thought of that…"

Then in a surprising repeat of this morning and a minute ago, she gripped both of his lapels with urgent fists. A most unladylike gesture. Rhett smiled, a genuine—and genuinely disarming—expression, at her earnest face. She looked down at his crumpled overcoat in her hands, and he sucked in his breath.

When she looked back at him, any nascent warmth of feeling he might have had dissolved under a cold wave. Her eyes were hard as nails, and her words brought him back to his senses.

"Listen, if you promise not to do it, I'll pay you. I'll pay you as much as he will. You won't gain anything by giving me away as long as I'm willing to make it worth your while. I've _got_ to get to Ash—" she stopped, and licked suddenly dry lips. "I've got to get to New York without being stopped. It's terribly important to me. I'd – pay you now, but the only thing I had when I jumped off the yacht was a wristwatch. I had to pawn it to get these clothes." Her hands fluttered as she talked, gesturing to her wrist, her skirt, resting on his chest again. It would have been cute if she weren't such an overindulged little thing. "I'll give you my address, and you can get in touch with me the minute you get to New York." She started to dig through her wallet, and Rhett decided to put an end to the charade.

"Never mind." he interrupted. "You know, I had you pegged right from the jump. Just the spoiled brat of a rich father. The only way to get anything is to buy it, because you can't understand anything that isn't dollars and cents. You're in a jam, and all you can think of is your money." He tilted his head and regarded her speculatively. "It's never failed you, has it? Until now. Did you ever think of just asking? Saying, _please mister, I need your help_." She paled at this, and he felt the corner of his mouth curl down. "No, you wouldn't," he scoffed. "Then you'd have to get down off your high horse for a minute. Well, I'll tell you something, and maybe it'll take a load off your mind: I'm not interested in you or your problems. You, Ashley Wilkes, your father—you're all a lot of hooey to me."

Rhett turned on his heel and walked away leaving the flower opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, like a little goldfish, her pale skin now streaked pink with rage. He wasn't sure why her offer had angered him so. He _could_ have used her money. And if she hadn't offered it, he probably would have been incensed by that, too. Whatever the reason, he didn't feel like examining it now.

He stalked off in search of the Western Union office, mentally preparing his message along the way. However irritating and high-handed, the flower should still prove useful to him.

~nb~

A little blonde was working the desk in the telegraph office. "Do you send telegrams here?" Rhett asked brusquely, unceremoniously shoving his hastily scrawled missive across the counter to her. Her tightly curled ringlets bounced as her head swiveled up to his.

"I'm just fine, thanks, and how are you?" she replied with a smirk, her tone just this side of caustic.

She was pretty, and less infuriating than the flower already. He grinned back at her, his eyes twinkling, as she took his script and began to read it out loud into the machine. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette.

"To 'Henry Hamilton, care of New York Mail, New York. Am I laughing. The biggest scoop of the year just dropped in my lap. I know where Scarlett O'Hara is—" At this, she looked up at him, and her curls bounced again. She covered the microphone with a hand and asked excitedly, "No, do you really?"

 _What was it with that girl_ , Rhett wondered, refraining from rolling his eyes. People were so damnably _interested_ in her. Of course, he couldn't really be irritated at the interest; he especially didn't mind that said interest was going to get him his job back. But why? Just another useless child of a rich father. He shrugged lazily; if it worked to his advantage, who was he to care how people spent their time? There were certainly worse ways.

Motioning toward the machine, he muttered impatiently, "Go on. Go on, send the telegram." He struck a match and lit the cigarette in his mouth.

The girl continued in the same halting, clear manner, "How would you like to have the story, you big tub of-" she frowned and peered at his handwriting, "tub of-" she paused again.

"Mush. _Mush_." Rhett explained.

"Tub of mush," she finished. "Well, try and get it. What I said about never writing another line for you still goes. Are you burning? Rhett Butler." She finished the transmission and turned back to him. "That'll be $2.60."

"Send it collect," Rhett replied, letting his eyes twinkle again. She smiled.

"Collect?"

He had already turned, making his way to the door. He pivoted back, his hand on the doorknob. "Collect." he confirmed, tossing her a wink for good measure. Then he left the office, wondering how he'd pass the time for the next eleven hours.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Baby chapter, but I wanted to update, and this is such a delightful diversion from my angsty stories. Old Maid Wilkes, acceptable (lateagain) substitute birthday present? :)

With another character, I might have tried to find a GWTW counterpart, but Roscoe Karns is simply too magnificent, and I couldn't replace him in any way. Nobody puts Shapeley in a corner!

* * *

Chapter 7

Scarlett watched that infuriating man stalk away from her, and stamped her foot in stymied fury. How _dare_ he think so little of her, that she just bought everything, including kindness! She didn't _have_ to buy people's decency—they usually just afforded it to her! And even if it had been true, was it her fault? He would surely think her stingy if she _hadn't_ offered.

She looked around her, feeling slightly forlorn. Whatever was she to do with herself for twelve hours? The newness of the first bus station experience had worn off fairly quickly, and now she was even more worried about being discovered, with her picture splashed all over the papers.

She could go back to the Windsor, or maybe do a little shopping. She wasn't particularly interested in either of those, right now. She wanted to be on her bus, feeling her heart thrum as the wheels carried her closer to Ashley. Now he was still however many miles away, and half a day before she could even begin to bridge the distance. She felt frustrated and thwarted, but aimlessly made her way outside to walk around a bit.

And then it began to rain.

~nb~

 _"Bus leaving for Savannah, Charleston, Columbia, Greensboro, Richmond, Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York… Savannah, Charleston, Columbia, Greensboro…"_ a bored, nasal voice intoned.

 _Finally!_ Scarlett thought, feeling tension melt into relief all along her shoulders. It had been the most interminable day, waiting all these hours for the next bus. With one hour to go, she had resolved to stop checking the clock. It made her more anxious every time she checked, to see that what she was absolutely sure had been at least seven minutes, had in fact only been three.

She had kept her resolution for all of another two minutes, before she broke. Then she had resolved _not_ to look away, as if getting involved in a staring contest with a clock would force time itself to hurry. Her eyes burned, and she blinked several times. Remembering Pa's triumph and laughing admonishment when she had lost a similar battle over turnips one night at supper, she frowned.

Blinking didn't count against a clock, given a timepiece's advantage of not having eyelids, she decided.

The second hand ticked forward, and she began to gaze at it meditatively. Like her steps this morning, she allowed the ticks to lull her, as if they were saying, "Ash- ley- Ash- ley." This morning's mantra had been happy excitement, but this one felt more like grim determination. She would make this bus, and she _would make it back_ to him. Everything that got in her way only made her more resolute to finish this journey. Besides, she could not give up now; she had not even made it to the next state. Pa would never let her hear the end of it if she gave up this soon.

She felt steely single-mindedness to see this thing through now, and at long last, that bored, nasal announcer broke through her thoughts. She walked outside clutching her ticket and wallet, and climbed up into the bus.

Several rows back, _he_ was sitting next to the window, the seat next to him open. Not for all the snow in Halifax! He looked up from his paper and his eyes glittered, hard, when his gaze fell on her. Directly across from him, there was another open seat, and the man at that window wasn't a marshmallow who would sleep on her.

She'd take her chances. Without looking back, she ducked into the seat.

The man next to her folded his paper, and glanced toward her.

"Hi, sister. All alone?" he asked, smiling. Scarlett looked coolly back at him. Something about his smile made her uneasy, but he _did_ find her attractive, and that was nice.

"My name's Shapeley, might as well get acquainted with each other, it's gonna be a long trip, gets tiresome later on. Specially for somebody like you. You look like you got class."

Scarlett felt his eyes slither along her figure, and resisted the urge to tug at her skirt. It felt as if he was trying to imagine her without her underthings on!

Picking up right where he left off, he continued, "Yessir, with a capital K. And I'm the guy that knows class when he sees it, believe you me." Scarlett doubted this.

Then he had the audacity to laugh at his statement, as if it were in any way amusing. Scarlett glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Ask any of the boys. They'll tell you. Shapeley sure knows how to pick 'em. Yessir. Shapeley's the name, and that's the way I like 'em. You made no mistake sitting next to me," here he leaned in conspiratorially, "just between you and me, the kind of mugs you meet on the road like this ain't nothing to write home to the wife about. Ya gotta be awful careful who you heat it up with, is what I always say, but you can't be too particular neither."

Scarlett had turned to look down the aisle (she couldn't help it if she happened to see that cad across the aisle out of the corner of her eye when she turned this way) as his monologue began. "What's the matter, sister? You ain't sayin' much." He finally took a breath, to light a cigar, and she turned back to him in indignant amazement.

"Seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance."

Her most cutting remark only seemed to delight him, and he laughed. "Oh, that's pretty good," he replied, and then in a high voice imitated her, _"_ ' _Seems to me you're doing excellently without any assistance,_ '" before laughing again. "Well, shut my big nasty mouth." If only he would!

He hooted with laughter again, and actually slapped his knee. Ellen would never believe.

Scarlett looked back down the aisle, noticing again the empty seat there by the… cad. She'd have to think of a better name for him. He was infuriating, but at least he kept his mouth shut _sometimes_. She'd be able to get some rest— _no_ , she reminded herself, that would never do, either to let Shapeley know he bothered her or to let _him_ know his company was preferable to another person's. His astounding ego needed no encouragement from her, and even if he was very pleasingly warm, she was not that cold, and he wasn't even concerned about her current distress, anyway!

"Looks like you're one up on me. You know, there's nothing I like better than to meet a high-class mama that can snap 'em back at ya. 'Cause the colder they are, the hotter they get. That's what I always say. Yessir, when a cold mama gets hot, boyyy, how she sizzles." He giggled at this latest evidence of wit, and Scarlett could not help rolling her eyes.

"Now you're just my type. Believe me, sister, I could go for you in a big way. One on the side Shapeley, they call me. With accent on the fun, believe you me."

Finally, Scarlett had had enough. She turned to him, cool as she could, and said, "Believe you me, you bore me to distraction."

Shapeley only laughed again, and Scarlett began to wonder in earnest if the man could ever be deterred from talking to her. "Looks like you're two up on me now." He held up two fingers to demonstrate. He'd run out of fingers before they got to Savannah if he kept this up.

Scarlett heard a rustling movement in the aisle, and looked up. _He_ was leaning over their seats, one arm propped up against the luggage rack. He was so very tall.

"Hey," he said, looking at Shapeley, and she noticed again his deep, resonant voice. "There's a seat over there for you." He jerked his chin toward the seat he'd just vacated.

"What's the idea?" Shapeley asked.

"I'd like to sit next to my… wife, if you don't mind."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you for reading!

* * *

Chapter 8

Rhett had listened to Shapeley as long as he could bear it. Listened and uncrossed his legs. Listened and refolded his paper, studying it intently. Listened and recrossed his legs. The flower wasn't wilting delicately under the onslaught, he had to hand it to her. Shapeley's inane utterances only brought more stinging rebukes, and he felt oddly, begrudgingly proud of her for it.

" _Looks like you're two up on me now,_ " old Believe-You-Me was saying, when Rhett at last decided his ears deserved some blessed silence.

He stood, leaning one arm against the luggage railing. He loomed over their seats, and felt formidable—satisfyingly so.

 _"There's a seat over there for you."_

Scarlett needed rescuing from no man, but she couldn't help smile smugly at Shapeley when she heard that resonant voice behind her.

"What's the idea?" he asked, stammering. Scarlett nearly dimpled at him.

 _"I'd like to sit next to my… wife, if you don't mind."_

Scarlett's neck swiveled around to look up at… _him_ , in utter astonishment.

"Your wife?" Shapeley asked uneasily.

"Yeah, come on, come on," he was saying, growing impatient. Exactly what did he intend to do with this ruse, Scarlett wondered, still looking up at him. He wasn't looking at her.

"Oh yeah, yeah, sure," Shapeley said, the stammering growing more pronounced. "Excuse me, I was just— uh, sure, I was just— trying to make things pleasant, see… I—I didn't mean anything by it," he continued babbling as he got up from his seat and crawled over her.

Scarlett scootered over toward the window, and the sometimes-considerate cad sat down next to her.

"I didn't mean anything by it, uh, Doc— no offense, Doc." Shapeley was still talking, still holding up the two fingers he'd used to signal Scarlett's small conversational victories in an ineffectual V. He seemed to notice the gesture and shook his fingers out grimly.

How like a man, Scarlett thought, to ignore a woman's protests, but listen as soon as another man asked him to be quiet. She wanted to silently fume, and rail that she did not need to be rescued, but she suddenly remembered him trying to recapture her suitcase, finding her ticket and giving it back to her, and covering her with his scarf and coat as she slept. He was an arrogant devil, but, oh, he could be so nice!

She angled herself toward him, dimples drawn, fluttering eyelashes at the ready, to turn the full blast of her charm on him in honest gratitude. He still wasn't looking at her, though, and her smile faltered as she absorbed his standoffish demeanor. He seemed to be holding her at a distance: saving her from that awful companion, but not remotely interested in her, as though they had never met before or shared any kind of kinship at all. It made her uncomfortable, and sad, and before she could descend any further into feeling the loss of his company, she decided it simply wouldn't happen. Anyway, she had to thank him, for he mustn't think her ill-bred. Ellen had taught her manners, even if she'd never been able to overrule her temper.

"If you promise not to snap my head off, I'd like to thank you," she said, hoping a more demure air would soothe his curious, fey mood.

But her hopes, as always when it came to this stranger, were dashed. Without looking up, he shook out his paper, frowning more. "Forget it. I didn't do it for you. His voice gets on my nerves."

Scarlett sat back in her seat, stung. Men! Why did some of them have to be such mysteries! She crossed her arms over her chest, worrying at her lower lip, absolutely _refusing_ to cry, for she had nothing with which to wipe her eyes, and reminded herself that she was alone. Well, she wasn't on this trip to make friends. It would suit her fine to get to New York without having to exchange more than five words with anybody else.

Rhett studiously avoided the flower's gaze as she turned to him, all smiles and sooty eyelashes and dimpled charm. He was annoyed with himself, feeling oddly guilty for his own rough mood. Her thanks, when she offered it, sounded heartfelt, and his own response came out much gruffer than he had intended.

She turned back to face the seats in front of them, an embarrassed blush creeping across her fair skin, and he felt unfairly and needlessly rude. Eleanor would never approve. _Damn all_ , what was it about this girl?! Out of the corner of his eye, he noted her posture, spine ramrod straight, and suddenly wanted to apologize, or tease her more.

"What did you do all day?" he asked, settling for neither.

She didn't look at him as she answered. "Ran in and out of doorways, trying to keep out of the rain."

Rhett turned and looked at her— _really_ looked at her—for the first time since he'd sat down. "Your clothes are all wet." He stood and fished his scarf out of his bag overhead, and sat down again. "Here. You're as helpless as a baby."

"Thank you," she said, as she knotted the soft fabric around her neck. The consideration and warmth of the scarf cheered her more than the insult affected her. She couldn't help being caught in rain. He knew her bag had been stolen.

A vendor called out down the aisle, "Cigars! Cigarettes! Chewing gum! Candy! Magazines!" and the thought of a chocolate bar cheered her further.

"Here, boy!" she called to him, pulling out her wallet. "A box of chocolates, please."

"Never mind, son, she doesn't want it." The cad had the gall to interrupt her transaction, motioning the young seller away.

"Oh, but the lady said—"

"Well, of course I do!"

"Beat it, beat it," he continued, brooking no opposition.

"Well, you've got your nerve!" Scarlett cried, turning flashing eyes on this infuriating man. Oh, she'd rather put up with Shapeley than this! "Here, _boy!_ " she called over the seat, but it was no use.

The man was now actually _riffling_ through her purse. "A dollar and sixty cents." He looked at her disdainfully. "You had four dollars last night. How do you expect to get to New York at the rate you're going?"

She hated to admit she hadn't thought of it that way. Sixty percent of her budget in one day! Oh, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all. How dare he! "That— that's none of your business," she said, reaching to get her wallet back.

"You're on a budget from now on."

She certainly was, but she wasn't about to let him be the one to tell her what she already knew. "Well, now just a minute, you can't—"

"Will you be quiet? Though I suppose asking a woman to keep her mouth shut is asking the impossible."

He tossed her wallet back into her lap carelessly, and she clutched it like a lifeline. He was impudent, and hateful. _Certainly_ a goon, even if he wasn't her father's. Her face tingled with rage that kept her warm long after most people around her were asleep.

~~nb~~

Rhett was awoken, too few hours later, at the sensation of the bus braking and stopping. They couldn't be in Savannah yet. He slipped out of his seat and up the aisle, his nascent reporter instincts overtaking him to investigate.

"You won't be able to pass 'til morning," he thought he heard a voice outside the bus.

"Not even then, if this keeps up," somebody answered. His voice, too, was hard to make out, the 'this' in 'if this keeps up' being something of a torrential downpour.

"What's going on?" Rhett asked, turning his attention to the driver. The two men—policemen, he now saw—from outside were now standing at the bus door.

"Bridge washed out around Dawson," the first one said.

The driver turned to Rhett and explained apologetically, "Looks like we can't get through until the morning."

"Not even then, if this keeps up," the second voice chimed in again. In a better mood, or better weather, Rhett might have been inclined to smirk at this. Being on the short end of the stick with regard to the rain and the roads, however, he felt the second officer was much too pleased by the prospect of the stranded travelers.

The first officer spoke again. "Any of your passengers want a place to sleep, there's an auto camp up yonder a piece."

Rhett turned to him, definitely interested. "Where?"

The officer pointed at a place just visible through darkened trees. "Up yonder. See the lights?"

Rhett hunched over more to see out where the policeman was pointing, and squinted. He could just barely make out a row of lights. He nodded.

"That's it. Peter's Auto Camp."

Rhett nodded again. "Thanks," he said, really meaning it. A bed! To sleep in a bed, instead of a bus seat, to stretch out his legs. Oh, he'd dealt with discomfort often enough—he stood it whenever he had to, without complaint, but that didn't mean he'd choose it when he didn't need to.

The flower, on the other hand, might need some convincing after his jeers. She'd probably need him more on this journey, but what she didn't know was that he needed her, if he was going to get his job back. And if she did know, she'd be even more likely to refuse his help. He'd have to turn on the charm.

He turned back up the steps and stood at the front of the bus next to the driver's seat.

"Hey, brat!"

The flower's ivory skin paled considerably. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah. C'mon, we're stopping here for the night."


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Historically accurate representation of white bus travelers staying overnight at business owned by an African-American during the Depression in the Jim Crow South? Not likely. But I wanted Peter in this story and owning business, so reality—as it so often does—can suck it.

* * *

Chapter 9

Scarlett didn't know what possessed her, except that she was cold, and the goon was finding a bed for her to sleep on, for whatever reason. And although she felt sure that she would regret everything about this in the morning—or sooner, knowing him—the thought of a bed, even one likely to be hard, its blanket scratchy, couldn't make her care about what his motives might be. She'd think of them later. Which is how she came to be standing under an awning, next to the sign for Peter's Auto Camp, waiting for the goon to come out of one of the little cabins, and hoping he wasn't a dream.

Everything about this was starting to feel dreamlike. She was so tired, everything felt fuzzy. Being out in rain like this was surreal, and Pa would have worried that she'd catch her death of cold, and order her to roast under seven blankets by a crackling fire if he saw her now.

The goon reappeared in the doorway. "C'mon, c'mon, we're all set!" he yelled, his voice attempting to cut across the rain. He waved her over. Scarlett took in her surroundings once more and hitched his coat over her head to shield herself from the worst of the storm. Yes, _his_ coat; he'd given it to her when she walked up the aisle, just after he called her a brat. It had been unpardonably thoughtful.

She crossed paths with the owner of the camp as she hurried over. He greeted her cheerfully. "Good ev'nin', m'am. Hope you and yo' husband rest comfortable now, miss."

 _Husband!_ Well, of course he'd have to… But he— ! Oh, _what_ had she gotten herself into now? She stared so long she forgot to respond until he was out of earshot. "Th— thank you." she murmured after his retreating figure.

"Come on, come on, what are you going to do, stay out there all night?" Goon had come to the doorway again.

She resumed her path toward the cabin and the promise of shelter. A little porch protected the front of the structure, and she was happy to stand again instead of hunching over to cover herself with the coat. She stood in the doorway for a second, taking in the scene. He was smoothing out a blanket on the far twin bed. His suitcase lay open on the bed nearest her by the door. He turned around and smoothed out the blanket on his own bed. If he took any notice of her arrival, he didn't show it.

He turned away again, looking fixedly at the wall space between their beds. She looked around, taking in a tiny round table with mismatched chairs, a small stove, and windows hung with decorative, but shabby curtains. Her eyebrow went up of its own volition. She watched as he took a length of rope—procured from heavens only knew where—and tied it around a coat hook on the wall where he'd been staring.

"Darn clever, these Armenians," she noted, looking at her surroundings.

"Yeah, yeah, it's a gift," he replied, as he walked the short distance to the table, and tied the other end of rope around the chandelier (if you could call it that) hanging above.

"I just had the unpleasant sensation of hearing you referred to as— my husband," she began, hoping for an immediate explanation.

"Oh yeah," he said, thoughtfully, "I forgot to tell you about that. I registered as Mr. and Mrs."

Well, she had _gathered_ that much. "Oh, you did."

He hummed in answer.

"Well, what am I expected to do about it?" she couldn't help but wonder aloud. "Jump for joy?" He had turned around again, and begun to take off his jacket. His sweater should have clashed with his tie, and that it did not, made her feel even less charitable toward him.

"I kind of half expected you to thank me," he said, smiling, as he hung his coat off the back of a chair.

"Your ego is absolutely colossal."

Meant to be an insult, he seemed to take her pronouncement as a compliment instead.

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her comment off as he turned to her for the first time. "Not bad. How's yours?" He grinned—he looked just like a picture book pirate when he did that! she realized—and moved toward her. She stiffened, but he only put a gentle hand on her arm to propel her further inside the cabin. Then he shut the door and set about unpacking his suitcase with the most infuriating, smug placidity.

"You know, compared to you, my friend Shapeley's an amateur." His response was to continue taking clothes out of his case. "Just whatever gave you the idea that I'd stand for this?"

At this, he straightened. "Hey now, wait a minute. Let's get this straightened out right now. If you're nursing any silly notion that I'm interested in you, forget it. I'm not a marrying man. And if I were…" his eyes swept up and down her figure in a cold leer. "Well, god help the man who ever really loves you. Anyway, you're off the market. You're just a headline to me."

He was horrid to imply that _she_ had suggested anything like marriage, and his odd little speech about any man who really loved her... what did he mean by that? But before she could think to decipher it, his last words doused her irritation in new, cold worry.

"H- headline! Y- you're not a newspaper man, are you?"

"Chalk up one, for your side." She chewed her lip, scrambling to figure out how best to use this to her advantage. He didn't give her time to come up with anything. "Now, listen. You want to get to Ashley Wilkes, don't you? Alright. I'm here to help you. What I want is your story. Exclusive. A day-to-day account, all about your mad flight to happiness. I need that story." He did seem rather urgent. He was leaning toward her, his large, powerful body almost crowding her against the door. "Just between you and me, I've got to have it." He straightened, and the strange, pressing energy driving him just moments before evaporated. He went back to his suitcase.

"Well, isn't that just too cute. There's a brain behind that face of yours, isn't there?" Why had she said that? Now he would think she had noticed his face. "You've got everything nicely figured out for yourself. Including this." She gestured widely to the surrounding little room.

"This?" he questioned. "Well, that's a matter of simple mathematics. These cabins cost two bucks a night. And I'm very sorry to inform you, wifey dear, but the family purse won't stand for our having separate establishments. Besides, a husband and wife in separate cabins? Preposterous."

Scarlett had heard quite enough. She shook herself out of his coat and laid it on his bed. "Thank you. Thank you very much. You've been very kind." She turned and opened the door.

In front of her, the downpour that seemed to have no intention of letting up. Behind her…

"That's quite alright with me. Go on out in the storm," the reporter mocked her cheerfully. "But I'm going to follow you, see?" She turned back around, looking into his unnoticeable face, dread curling inside her. He leaned against the doorframe nonchalantly. "Yeah. And if you get tough I'll just have to turn you over to your old man right now. Savvy? Now that's my whole plot in a nutshell." He put his hand behind her arm again and steered her into the cabin once more, shutting the door behind her.

"A simple story for simple people. Now if you behave yourself, I'll see that you get to Ashley Wilkes; if not, I'll just have to spill the beans to papa." He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and patted her cheek dry where rain had blown in. She stared silently, a jumble of emotions rendering her temporarily speechless. "Now, which of these beds do you prefer?" Still speechless, but he must have taken her glance as indication. "This one?" he asked, pointing to the far bed. "All right." He turned down the covers for her, and pressed his hands into the mattress. He looked like a pirate again when he grinned. He lowered the shades behind the curtains, and took an extra blanket from his bed and shook it out. Scarlett watched in some amazement as he threw the blanket over the rope he'd fastened earlier.

" _That_ ," she said, waving her hand at the slight barrier, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "I suppose, makes everything _quite alright_."

"Oh, this?" he looked at her over his shoulder. She nodded. "Well, I like privacy when I retire." he explained, as if that was the explanation she had sought. "Yes, I'm very delicate in that respect. Prying eyes annoy me." He finished straightening the blanket along the rope so it would not slip, and turned to her. "Behold, the walls of Jericho. Ah, maybe not as thick as the ones that Joshua blew down with his trumpet, but a lot safer." He leered at this. "You see," he said, pulling at the sleeves and neck of his sweater, "I have no trumpet. And just to show you my heart is in the right place, I'll give you my best pair of pajamas."

He reached them out to her, and when she did not immediately move to take them, he tossed them at her instead. She caught them. She couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Do you mind joining the Israelites?" She folded her arms, clutching his pajamas, across her chest, and smirked at him, this wretched blackmailing reporter who was not now and had never been her friend.

"Alright," he surrendered to her silent treatment, and began to shrug out of his sweater. "Perhaps you're interested in how a man undresses. You know it's a funny thing about that. Quite a study in psychology—no two men do it alike." He tossed the clothing carelessly onto the bed, where it landed on his pillow. Then he untied his tie. "You know, I once knew a man who kept his hat on 'til he was completely undressed." The tie joined the sweater, and he slid first one suspender, then the other, down his arms. "Yeah, now _he_ made a picture," he continued, as if they were both participating in the pleasantest conversation in the world. "Years later, his secret came out. _He wore a toupee_." he whispered conspiratorially. Scarlett almost smiled.

He was unbuttoning his shirt now, and Scarlett was… well, if she'd been British, she would have been gobsmacked, but alas, she was American, so stunned will have to suffice. Scarlett was stunned. Not so much by his looks, but the very cavalier way he was simply undressing in front of a stranger—a _lady,_ no less! She couldn't seem to make either her mouth or her legs work.

"You know, I have a method all my own." His shirt was open now, and Scarlett swallowed. He did not wear an undershirt, which for some reason was utterly shocking to her—almost more than seeing a strange man's—or any man's, for that matter—chest. Dark hair covered it, except along two lines: one, a thin white line arcing diagonally down his stomach, and an angrier mark, harsher contours marked by a raised ridge of skin, across the other side. Not that she was looking.

"If you'll notice, the coat came first. Then the tie. Then the shirt," he nodded to his cufflinks, which he was currently unfastening. "Now, ah, according to Hoyle, after that the pants should be next." Then he _winked_ at her. "There's where I'm different," he said proudly, as if it was the greatest accomplishment. "I go for the shoes next." He grinned again. Without his shirt on, she half-expected him to follow this commentary with, "Avast!" But he did not.

"First the right, then the left." His shoes thunked to the floor. "After that, it's, ah… every man for himself."

And as his hands went to the waistband of his pants, Scarlett finally gathered her wits about her enough to scurry behind the blanket.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Hi again, lovely friends and readers! It may seem impossible to have gotten so stuck on a story whose source material is _right there_ , but stuck, I was. Plus, life. Too hectic by half, am I right? Why is this not my full-time job?

I'm hoping to get back to some kind of schedule, but I've read enough author notes to know you shouldn't ever even _mention_ a schedule. (At least I won't say what i hope mine is, and then you can never know if I'm off it! Mwahaha.) Thank you so much for reading, especially if you review. Your kind words really do keep me going, even when it may not seem like that from my output. :) Please enjoy the next installment!

* * *

Chapter 10

Away from _prying eyes_ , Rhett had changed into his pajamas, lit a cigar, and climbed into bed, fluffing the covers as he liked while he did so. All in an altogether surprising silence. An uneasy silence?

"Still with me, brat?"

He had enjoyed sparring with the flower ever since she'd stepped inside the cabin. She was a pretty little thing when she was flustered or angry—fortunately for Rhett, she was frequently one or the other with him. What was a spirited girl like her doing with a too large mouthful of Dead Sea fruit like Wilkes? He'd get quite a story out of her, that was sure. And given her penchant for flusteriness, he might get more story out of her than she intended to give. Never one to overly concern himself with exactly _why_ he got his information, he looked forward to learning a little more than she'd have liked.

He smiled to himself, as his cigar made an orange arc in the air above his bed. So she'd noticed his face. That was always helpful, too, and he wouldn't scruple not to use it.

Most of these society ladies had all the fire either bred or cotillioned right out of them. Never let you see how they really felt or thought about anything—it was charitable enough simply to assume that they _did_ have thoughts and emotions. Most of the time you were hard-pressed to glean that they felt or thought anything at all behind their polished façades. Not his flower, though, and he chuckled quietly to himself, thinking of her conversation with Shapeley.

He had begun to think she wouldn't answer, when her light, clear voice, snapping with irritation, carried easily over the flimsy fabric wall.

"Where else could I possibly be?" He could hear the soft rustle of clothing, and grinned broadly. Ah, flusteriness, his old friend.

He stubbed out his cigar, and folded his hands behind his head. "Indeed, Miss O'Hara. Where _would_ you be, without me?"

He didn't have to see her to imagine the square of her jaw sticking out mutinously right about now—not just from his rejoinder but because it was true. She owed him, and she didn't like it. Stubborn as a mule, that one, he mused, and he smiled again.

"That's Mrs. Wilkes, if you please," she said, sharply.

Rhett rolled his eyes, and snorted to himself. He was fairly certain he would never call her that. "Begging your pardon, my lady. Now get some rest. You've got nothing to worry about. The Walls of Jericho will protect you from the big bad wolf."

More silence. He began to whistle, just loudly enough to compete with the rain outside.

 _Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf?_

 _The big, bad wolf? The big, bad wolf?_

 _She's afraid of the big, bad wolf._

 _Tra-la-la-la-la_

He heard her clothes rustle again, more quickly and more loudly now, and wondered anew at her ability to convey _fury_ while undressing herself.

"Do you mind putting out the light?" she asked, a honeyed attempt at being polite, not successful enough to overcome her clipped tones.

"Not at all," he replied, smoothly, levering up from the bed to douse the lamp, before lying back down.

Moonlight streamed into the room, the old, worn curtains attempting, but failing mightily, to keep it out.

Rhett lay in bed, his eyes resting contemplatively on the blanket. The room was not large, and the flower's smallest movements bumped against it gently. An elbow here. An altogether more interesting joint a bit lower there.

A flash of white within the cabin was almost mistaken for a bolt of lightning outside. Rhett cocked an eyebrow upon realizing it was her chemise, thrown over the top of the 'wall.' Another charming garment followed soon after. Unable to resist the temptation to needle her once more, he calmly asked, "Do you mind taking those things off the Walls of Jericho?"

"Oh!" she cried, whipping the clothes back over. "Excuse me." He could practically hear her blush.

A few more moments passed in rainy silence. He heard her bedsprings creak lightly. More rain. She sat up suddenly—the bedsprings gave another creak, and the covers shoved down.

"By the way, what's your name?"

So intent on his surroundings, her words didn't register at first. He wrinkled his brow, turning his head toward her. "What's that?"

"Who are you?" she asked, more impatiently.

"Who, me?" he smirked. "Why, my dear, I am the whippoorwill that cries in the night. I'm the soft morning breeze that caresses your lovely fac—"

"You've got a _name_ , haven't you?" she cut him off, her voice sparkling with irritation, and a dash—he thought—of amusement.

"Yeah, I've got a name," he admitted, his voice growing quiet again. "Rhett Butler."

"Rhett Butler…" the flower said, feeling the name in her mouth. It sounded kind of nice, the way— "I don't like it," she finished, flopping back down to her pillow.

Rhett grinned. "Don't let it bother you. You're giving it back to me in the morning."

The rain continued to fall in a soft curtain outside. After another moment, she spoke again. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Butler."

"The pleasure is all mine," he returned, politely. " _Mrs._ Butler."

~nb~

Gerald O'Hara looked glumly out the window, watching neat, crisscrossing patches of land flow by underneath. Facing him sat his attorney, Charles Hamilton (no relation to Henry Hamilton; see Chapter 6). Breakfast plates shoved to one side, they had maps and notes scattered all over the table surface. The co-pilot opened the cockpit door, and handed a piece of paper to Charles. "Another message for you, sir." he called over the engine noise.

Gerald's attention snapped back to his associate. "Well, what is it, what is it, _what is it_?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the desk, his impatience fizzing over at all delay.

"It's from Charleston, Mr. O'Hara," Charles read. " _Checking every northbound train. Also assigned twenty operatives to watch main highways. No sign of your daughter yet. Will continue to do everything possible. Signed, Lovington Detective Agency, Charleston_ ," he finished.

"Bagh!" Gerald answered grumpily. "Just the same as all the others," he gestured to the stack of wires spread across the table. Reports from every state along the East Coast, and nothing! "Amateurs," he muttered.

"They're the finest detective agency in the country, sir." Charles offered.

" _That_ is why I _hired_ them, lad," Gerald retorted. "But the best obviously isn't good enough for my Katie Scarlett." Charles privately agreed with the logic of this conclusion. The boss' daughter was quite a girl, and Charles admired her nearly as much as he feared her. Feeling his face tingle in blush, he cleared his throat and redirected his attention to needlessly organizing the stack of wires in front of him. Looking back up, he watched Gerald, who puffed on his pipe, moodily, then punched the button for the speaker into the cockpit.

"Yes, sir?" the voice crackled through the box.

"I thought I gave orders that I was in a _hurry_ to get to New York. What are we crawling for?"

Accustomed to such temper and such orders, the pilot responded with resignation and equanimity. "We've got her wide open, sir."

"Well, step on it!" Mr. O'Hara bellowed, and jabbed the button again.

"I hope she's all right, sir," Charles said, noting the worry lines creasing the older man's forehead.

Gerald's head swung back to him, and Charles gulped. "Of course she's all right! What do you think can happen?"

"N- nothing, sir!" he answered, wishing he hadn't spoken at all.

"Then shut up about it!" Gerald harrumphed, crossing his arms and turning back to the window, his face regathering in uneasy lines. He sighed. _Oh, Mrs. O'Hara_ , he intoned silently, _it's a real favor you'd be doing me if you might intervene a bit._ He had to find Scarlett soon. So many people were looking for her, they'd probably bump into her by accident at this point. Of course she was all right. But all the same, he'd feel better when he could just rest his eyes on her again and _know_.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Who has two thumbs and the heart-stopping, knee-weakening possibility of bribing bugsie to update driving her? THIS GUY.

* * *

Chapter 11

The low, droning rumble of an airplane overhead slowly dragged Scarlett from slumber. She stretched, like a contented cat, wiggling her toes against the heavy fabric of the sheet. The sheet! This wasn't smooth, cool linen, it was… cotton, she supposed, as she came truly awake. Thick, durable cotton. It scratched her skin lightly, but its weight felt almost pleasant, all the same. She rolled her shoulders and turned her head. The blanket still hung from the rope, a silent testament that none of this had been a dream.

She felt uncommonly refreshed and well-rested, in spite of her meager surroundings. If she really thought about it, she might have discovered that it was _because_ of the homey cabin, rather than in spite of it. It was adequate—no more, and no less. The narrow bed was rather hard, but supportive enough, the furnishings old, but well-kept. The place was clean. It was certainly different from the sumptuous rooms to which she was accustomed, but it was comfortable.

She couldn't put her finger on it—the only explanation she came up with sounded foolish to her unanalytical ears; that she felt more _real_ here; preposterous, really—so she pushed it out of her mind. Whatever it was, she felt happy. Happier than she had been since… well, sometime before she had jumped off of Pa's yacht, to be sure. Pleased with this realization, she stopped trying to untangle her emotions. The _why_ of happiness never mattered as much as that it existed at all.

Pleased—and pleased with being pleased—she felt downright charitable, and wanted to share her cheerfulness with the reporter. _Rhett_ , she silently corrected herself.

"Hello," she called softly, in case he was still asleep.

He didn't answer.

"Hello?" she said again, as silence continued to greet her. "Mister?" _That_ sounded wrong, but she wasn't used to thinking of him as anything other than… well, _him_ , yet.

The cabin door opened, and he— _Rhett_ —walked in.

"Oh, hello!" she called, leaning forward to where she could just see past the "Wall".

He peeked around the blanket at the same time, and her heart did something funny as she looked into his face. And below that face— her eyes briefly slid over his broad shoulders, set off by a perfectly-tailored shirt and waistcoat. He moved with a graceful ease almost incongruous with his large body, as he stepped forward more, delicately plucking the blanket out of his way with long, tan fingers.

"What's the matter, are you not up yet?" His voice vibrated with the restless energy she'd noticed briefly the night before. He must be eager to begin work on his story. She respected that drive, and a small part of her thrummed with the same excitement at having a _mission_.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Eight o'clock," he answered, his voice short with urgency but not annoyance. He turned around and riffled through the paper bag he'd set on the table. "Here," he said, his hand closing around an object before he tossed it to her.

She picked up the little packet and turned it over in her hands, finding a wooden toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. "A toothbrush!" she exclaimed, "why, thank you!" Her eyes drifted over his shoulder, and she saw her dress, not where she left it, but neatly pressed, hanging on a hook against the wall. "Oh, and my dress! You've had it pressed!" She smiled at him, a genuinely artless display of gratitude, unaware that such an expression made stars dance in her eyes—the kind of thing one noticed, if one wasn't a cynical, world-weary reporter, of course.

"Come on, come on," he said, more gruffly now, turning back to the room's tiny stovetop. "Breakfast'll be ready in no time," he muttered, and cracked one egg neatly into the hot pan.

Instead of being offended by his abrupt descent into impatience, an idea bloomed in her head. Why, he seemed almost _discomfited_ by her thanks, annoyed at her bright mood. Perhaps he hadn't slept as well as she… Determined to press further, her eyes gleamed, her dimples deepening at the thought of ruffling his aloof feathers.

"What a sweet thing you were to get it pressed," she nearly purred.

He turned back to her, his dark eyes resting speculatively on her face for only a moment. "Hey listen, brat: I'm going to count to ten. If you're not out of that bed by then, I'll come over there and get you out of it myself."

Scarlett's eyes widened, but she tossed her head in nonchalance at the absurd threat.

"One, two, three, four, five," he counted. And quickly, too.

Her eyes widened further, and she could only imagine how he planned to get her out of the bed. Yanking the covers off, and tickling her feet until she was weak from laughter, breathless with… her cheeks tingled—breathless with laughter, naturally—what else? God's nightgown, he was still counting! _Six, seven_ …

"Eight." She kicked her feet which suddenly seemed tangled in the sheets, and her heart pounded in anticipation—no, _fear_ —as he began to walk toward her, saying, "Nine."

She scrambled up, awkward and ungainly, and blushing for no reason she could think of, she cried, "I'm out, I'm out!" just as he said, _ten._ He smiled then, a picture of amiability, and her heart thumped in an odd pang, as if she had been thwarted in some goal.

"You'll find the showers and— things, right in back of the second cottage," he called over his shoulder, having turned back to the stove disappointingly soon.

"Out— outside?" Scarlett asked, stunned. She, Scarlett O'Hara, use an outdoor shower? And— an _outhouse?_ "Like a— a _cave person?_ " She did not realize she had spoken that last utterance aloud, until Rhett's laughter rang through the cabin. She had two opposite and simultaneous reactions to it, and grimaced that he was laughing at her, even if it _was_ an altogether very pleasing sound.

"Certainly, outside," he replied with ease. "All the best homes have 'em outside." He was looking at her again, and his eyes twinkled with good humor. She had the distinct feeling that he wasn't laughing _at_ her for this. She smiled tentatively back at him.

"I—" she started, but her mouth was suddenly very dry. She licked her lips. "I can't go out like this," she said, picking lightly at the pajama top.

"Like what?" Rhett asked.

"Like this," she repeated, gesturing again to the pajamas she wore. They were surprisingly comfortable, an ignominious softness against her skin. "I have no robe," she elaborated.

Again to her surprise, he didn't tease her about this explanation. "Here," he said, plucking his robe from a hook by his bed. "Take mine," and he held it out for her. She expected him to make a jest at her request for a robe. It _was_ a little silly, she supposed, to need a robe when her—well, no, his, weren't they?—pajamas covered her perfectly well from neck to tiptoe. What _was_ the point of a robe, when you were already dressed? Etiquette was silly, sometimes, she mused, but if society dictated…

All these thoughts flew through her mind in the space of a breath, but she realized he was still holding the robe for her to slip into. How damnably nice he could be! She took quick steps toward him, and shrugged her arms into the sleeves. It wasn't her size, of course, and hung loosely around her in folds. Rhett tugged the sides together toward her neck to help her in, and rested his hands very lightly on her shoulders for a moment. "There," he muttered, more to himself than to her, it seemed. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sighed.

Rhett turned back to the business of breakfast, and Scarlett asked him, as she shoved her feet into slippers, "The showers, and… things— behind the second cabin?"

He nodded, and leaned over his bed to pick up something. "Use this towel," he said, offering it to her.

She smiled, and suddenly the room seemed to buzz with electricity, as if the same restlessness driving him this morning had leapt from him to permeate the cabin. His attention was on her, as it had not yet been this morning. (Not that she missed it.) He was looking her up and down, and she felt like she was wearing no robe at all.

His eyes continued to rove around her face, and she swallowed. "Where's the shower?" she asked drily, determined not to be put off by his quicksilver moods.

He reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It never curled, but it did frazzle in sleep, especially when she didn't have the time (or the brush) to do her hundred strokes every night. "Your hair's cute like that," he said, and his thumb just rested on her cheekbone. His touch was surprisingly gentle, for such a worldly man, and— "You should never comb it," he finished.

"And I suppose you'd like to do it for me," she smirked, matching his bantering tone on instinct that moved faster than common sense or propriety. Rhett's shout of laughter echoed again through the cabin, even as she clapped her hand over her mouth in dumbfounded horror. Of all the terribly improper things to say to a strange man! The terrible intimacy of him brushing her hair, oh god, why did her tongue move faster than her brain? And why was she thinking how very nice it would be if he _did_ brush her hair? "I'll find the shower," she muttered, desperate to get away from his smiling face.

As she moved past him, opened the door and scurried away, he leaned toward her—toward where she _had_ been, anyway. And as her legs propelled her toward the back of the second cabin, she thought she might have heard him whisper, "Wouldn't you like to know?"


	12. Chapter 12

AN: I couldn't figure a way to work in her name, but another familiar face makes an appearance!

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Chapter 12

Scarlett passed several children playing together, and men shining up their automobiles. Ahead, she saw several women standing in a line.

"Are the showers in there?" she asked one formidable-looking woman.

"Well, they aren't out here," the old lady replied, tartly.

Scarlett bit back a hot retort, thinking of Ellen instead, and opting for civility where she could muster it, even when certain people were clearly undeserving of it. "Thank you," she simpered, curtsying, and walked up to the door.

Yanking it open, she was startled by a scream. "Can't a body have a little privacy around here?" a shrill voice whined.

Scarlett barely registered a flash of blonde hair, the bare shoulders of a woman in a state of dishabille, as she slammed the door shut in mortification. Her cheeks were hot as she turned around. The women in line—so that was what the line was for, she belatedly realized—were all laughing, but she lifted her chin and walked as proudly as she could to the back of the line.

"If you want a shower out here, you'll stand in line, my dear," the formidable woman spoke again, imperiously.

A young girl stood in line, somewhat ahead of the dragon. She turned around and stuck her tongue out at Scarlett, her blond braids swinging from her neck with her movement.

Scarlett stuck her tongue out right back at the little imp, before biting back a smile. How marvelously freeing it was, sometimes, to be where no one knew your name or cared about what you did! To be a farmer's daughter, where people didn't watch your every move and report them back to a kind, but disapproving parent. Being Gerald O'Hara's daughter and a textiles heiress certainly had its… well, upsides, but oh, it was nice to be an unknown person sometimes! She laughed to herself, remembering how wonderful it had been to discover the fun of escaping her father's bodyguards. She'd made a game of it ever since, although she'd never gone undetected for this long.

These thoughts, her thrills of victory, continued to occupy her mind and make her smile, until she stepped out of the shower, clean and refreshed.

Her stomach growled as she walked back to the cabin, and she quickened her pace toward the breakfast Rhett had been preparing.

Then her day took a decidedly less pleasant turn. If the weather reflected her mood, a giant cloud would have been conjured up to block out the sun. But this was no magical realm—farcical and slapstick, maybe, but not magical—where the heroine's mood influenced her surroundings. Instead, the sun continued to shine, but Scarlett felt like she had been doused with cold water—nothing at all like the invigorating shower she had just enjoyed, but unexpected and unwelcome.

"Hi, sister," Shapeley called out behind her. "Ya remember me? Shapeley?" _As if she could forget_. She did not slow down, but he had no trouble catching up to her, anyway. "Say, I'm sorry about last night. Didn't know you was married to that guy. Ya shoulda told me right off." Then he laughed to himself. "There I was, gettin' myself all primed for a killin', and you turn out to be an old married woman!"

Of all the appalling things this little man had said to her, _this_ had to be the worst. He wasn't even embarrassed at having made advances to her! More like, he just wanted to get back in her good graces, so that if she— what, suddenly found herself divorced? As if she'd then run to him?! He seemed to take her for a common _hussy_.

At least they were near the cabin, and so, taking a risk, she called out brightly, "Oh, Rhett!" And then, to drive her point home, she tacked on, "Darling!"

Her heart pounded in her chest—great balls of fire, suppose he'd gone out?—but to her relief, their door cracked open. Rhett's head poked out and quickly observed the scene before him. Something frightening flashed across his face as he took in Shapeley, who was now looking at her legs, but Scarlett was sure it wasn't directed at her. Besides, she'd already decided she'd rather take her chances with Rhett than the horrid little Shapeley. The devil you know, and all that.

Rhett smiled as he saw her, and her heart pounded again, still in relief. She ran up the steps to greet her _husband_ with a peck on the cheek. Only Rhett, who had leaned out when she called, stood up as she reached him. Her lips, expecting to brush his cheek instead bumped against his neck, and she blushed at such an intimate contact. His left arm came around her and squeezed her hip. Looking up in surprise, she was taken aback by the hard look on Rhett's face as he glowered at Shapeley. She ducked her head in embarrassment. That accidental kiss, how very nice his arm felt around her, oh this was all too much, and Ellen would think her so unladylike! But as she turned to see the devastating effect Rhett's expression had on Shapeley—he gulped and walked quickly away and Scarlett rather thought his legs seemed rather unsteady—she also thought that it might all have been worth it.

His arm remained around her waist, and her left hand had crept to fiddle with his tie. Oh, but Shapeley was gone, now, there was really no need to continue this charade… As she raised her head to look up at him, she found she was already the subject of his attention. He was staring at her with a sort of… friendly intensity, if that was such a thing. She felt like she should be nervous, but she resisted the urge to fidget. Oh, he'd love to see her flustered! Instead, she maintained his gaze, fighting to keep her body absolutely still.

As she looked back at him, his eyes changed. Like a curtain being pulled over a deep, faint light, the intensity dimmed so quickly, she thought she must have imagined it. He cleared his throat, and stepped back from her, opening the door and ushering her back inside.

"It's high time you got back," he remarked, returning to the stove.

Scarlett ducked behind the blanket, and quickly changed out of the pajamas and back into her dress. Seeing no reason to tell him of her slight fall from grace at the shower, she replied airily, "Oh, I met some very interesting ladies at the showers. We got to talking about this and that. You know how time flies!" She smoothed down her skirt, and reemerged from Jericho.

"I'm sure that you must make friends with everyone you meet," Rhett said. She couldn't quite decipher his tone. He sounded sincere, and they had actually been getting along so well—real teamwork, especially where Shapeley was concerned! But then you never could be too on your guard with this one—she'd learned _that_ , too.

Deciding that a noncommittal reply sufficed whether or not he was being earnest about her making friends, she shrugged and seated herself at the table, where Rhett had placed two settings. If he was making fun of her, he could stuff it.

"My, my! Scrambled eggs!" she exclaimed, as he scraped some fluffy yellow bits onto her plate.

Rhett stopped, mid-plate, and pierced her with an unexpectedly stern gaze. "Egg," he corrected her. "One egg." He held the spatula up as he stressed one with a pointed finger. "One doughnut," he added, nodding to another plate on the table. Scarlett hadn't noticed it. "And coffee. Black. That's your ration 'til lunch." He turned around to set the pan back on the stove. "Any complaints?"

He seemed to be expecting her disdain. Scarlett wasn't used to such a meager breakfast, but he was still providing for her, even if he was being so strangely gruff about it. She didn't feel disdainful at all, only a little sad, maybe, that their shared triumph over Shapeley had dissolved into… this. "Oh no. No complaints." she responded sweetly.

Begrudgingly, Rhett admitted he'd have gotten cream, but he couldn't quite justify buying a whole pint.

Still aiming to reestablish their camaraderie, Scarlett rushed to soothe his attempted apology. Unfortunately, she miscalculated, and her overeager thanks undid all the hard work of her honestly felt sincerity. "Why, you don't have to apologize over cream, Mr. Butler! You'll never know how much I appreciate all this!" she gushed. (Poor Scarlett. She really wasn't trying to be ingratiating!)

Rhett's face hardened again. "What makes you so disgustingly cheerful this morning?" he asked, as he lifted the mug to his mouth to sip coffee. It burned his tongue. (Serves him right.)

Scarlett would not be baited. She shrugged again, and looked around her, as if the answer was in that room. "It must be the spring," she sighed.

Rhett huffed. "I thought maybe old ' _Believe-You-Me'_ told you a couple of snappy stories."

"No," Scarlett laughed, "he apologized for last night." _Sort of_ , she added to herself. "He said he didn't know we were married."

Rhett huffed again, but passed her a doughnut, which she happily took, murmuring her thanks. "That just shows you how wrong a guy can be."

Flushing slightly, Scarlett set the doughnut down on her plate, and hunched forward slightly to look into Rhett's face. "You think this whole business is silly, don't you? I mean, running away and everything."

"No, no," he reassured her, digging his fork into his egg. "It's too good a story."

Scarlett was not fooled. And while she didn't exactly want to confirm her suspicions of what he thought about her, part of her simply wanted him to admit it. If she knew what imaginary personality she was up against, she'd be all the more effective at dismantling it, and showing him what a nice person she was! And so she pressed on.


	13. Chapter 13

AN: So, one consequence of making Peter the auto camp owner? Having to decide whether I should inject ugly realism, or pretend it didn't exist. I didn't really like either option, but I hope what I did works.

The line Rhett quotes is Charlotte Bronte, from _Jane Eyre_.

Thanks for reviewing!

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Chapter 13

[Previously on _Night Bise_ : Scarlett is… trying to get Rhett to call her a spoiled brat? I wonder how that's going.]

 _You think this whole business is silly, don't you? I mean, running away and everything._

"No, no. It's too good a story." Rhett quickly assured her. This was both true and untrue. It would be a terrific story, but that didn't quite mean it wasn't a silly business, to boot. Silly business often made for the very best of stories.

"Yes, you do," the flower insisted. She hesitated, as if pondering the implications of true brattiness. "Well… perhaps I am, although I don't see how I can be! People who are spoiled are accustomed to having their own way. I never have." (This statement was not entirely accurate. She had gotten away with almost everything before her mother died, and Gerald still spoiled her in ways that Scarlett had never realized were indulgent. But if she had realized them, she would have decided that they didn't really count and Rhett didn't really need to know. And as it happened, she didn't realize them, so her words were spoken with a veneer of truth.)

"On the contrary, I've always been told what to do and how to do it and where and with whom. Would you believe it? This is the first time I've ever been alone with a man!"

"Oh yeah?" he asked, careful to sound just interested enough for her to continue without making her self-conscious about it.

"It's a wonder I'm not panic-stricken," she confided, good-naturedly.

Something about the admission charmed Rhett despite his continued skepticism as to her upbringing. "Oh, you're doing all right," he replied smoothly.

Her head swiveled up at his response. A pair of very clear, green eyes scanned his face for a moment, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. A faint wrinkle briefly puckered her forehead. Then her face cleared, and she shrugged, turning back to her food. "I mean it, though! Nannies, governesses, chaperones. Even bodyguards!" She stopped to take a bite of egg, which indelicately did not make it all the way to her mouth. Rhett's mustache twitched as her tongue darted out to lick it off her lip. "It's been a lot of fun," she finished, fixing him with her earnest _I am not a brat_ look.

Rhett smiled. The flower had a point, even if her definition of spoiled was conveniently myopic. _"I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high."_

The flower pierced him with that gaze again. "We-ell…" she said, uncertainly. The reference seemed to have been lost on her, and she was struggling to respond to the literal meaning. "Maybe something like that," she acknowledged, her eyes narrowed in distrust.

She might not be exceptionally well-read, but she was sharp enough to sense when she was being made a punchline. He quickly switched tracks. "One consolation, with all those people: you can never be lonesome."

Scarlett shrugged. "It has its moments. It got to be a sort of game to try to outwit Pa's detectives. I—I did it, once; we were staying in New York, and I made it all the way to Herald Square. I actually went shopping without a bodyguard!" The pride with which she made this pronouncement would have been utterly adorable to most men. "It was wonderful," she sighed, reflecting. "I felt positively scandalous. But it didn't last all that long. I made it to the department store, but they caught up with me when I'd only been there five minutes. I was so mad I ran out the back and jumped into the first car I saw!" She leaned forward in excitement, caught up in the thrill of her own story. "Guess who was in it?"

Rhett pretended to ponder this, stroking his moustache for a moment, before speaking.

"Santa Claus."

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but answered. "No, Ashley! Ashley Wilkes was in it."

Rhett perked up at this. Now they were getting somewhere! "I see. Is that how you met him?"

Scarlett nodded, but spoke contradictory words. "Well, sort of. We grew up together, you know. That is, he was our neighbor. But he went off to university when I was twelve, and I hadn't seen him since. And then there he was! Like something out of a fairy tale. Can you imagine? Of all the people!"

She picked up her doughnut, and set one end in her coffee. "We rode around all afternoon, just talking. Poor Pa was frantic." Her eyes clouded over briefly at this. That flicker of a shadow spoke of love and loyalty and selfishness and guilt all at once, and Rhett found himself charmed by her hypocrisy—or rather, intrigued by it, since reporters, as a rule, were not ones to be _charmed_ by their subjects. "If the bodyguards hadn't found us when they did, I think he'd've had all the rivers dragged."

Rhett's attention was diverted here from the flower's charming-and-or-intriguing emotional range. Her poor doughnut was still sitting in coffee, and as she raised it to her mouth, its structural integrity all but collapsed. Scarlett had to take a hasty bite off the end lest it fall and plunk into her coffee.

"What ladies' academy taught you to dunk, anyway?" he chided.

"Oh, now, don't you start telling me I shouldn't dunk!" Scarlett cried, indignantly.

"Of course you shouldn't," Rhett countered. "You don't know how to do it. Dunking's an art. Don't let it soak so long. You just dip," he demonstrated with his own doughnut, "and plop, into your mouth." He chewed the bite of pastry and swallowed. "You let it soak too long, and see— it gets soft and falls off. It's all a matter of timing." He wiped his mouth with the napkin. "I ought to write a book about it."

"Thanks, professor," the flower smirked. But she followed his instruction. Chewing happily on her properly-dunked doughnut, she smiled at him.

Rhett cleared his throat. "Just goes to show you. Millions in the bank and you don't know how to dunk."

Scarlett shrugged. "I'd change places with a plumber's daughter any day."

She was saved from whatever retort Rhett might have made (something along the lines of how stunningly blind she could be as to her fortunate circumstances, focusing only on her impressively large gilded cage) by voices outside the window.

 _You can't go around bothering my tenants!_ the auto camp owner was saying.

Rhett moved silently toward the door and opened it just a crack to better hear. Eavesdroppers often heard highly entertaining and instructing things, after all.

"I'm tellin' ya, sirs, there's no girl here by that name. 'Sides, how do I know you're detectives?" Peter asked.

One of the suited men stepped forward menacingly. "Watch who you're talking to, boy. We'll look where we want."

Rhett's stomach chilled, and he closed the door quietly. Scarlett had swung around in her seat, her face pale and mouth open in horror. It was an ugly scene, but it was sure to be worse if they found her after Peter's protestations.

"Pa's detectives! Oh, Rhett, what'll I do?" she asked, her eyes screening the room as if she could conjure a secret exit.

"Don't look at me. I didn't marry Ashley Wilkes." She glared at this, before standing and collecting her meager belongings.

"The window," she whispered. "Do you think they'd see me?"

The corner of Rhett's mouth twisted down. "Oh, don't be a fool." Her face twitched as if she'd been struck, and he hadn't even meant to be harsh. "Come here," he called in a low voice, his hand out, palm up. She started toward him, and when she was within reach, he closed his hand gently around her arm and guided her to the seat she'd just vacated. "Sit down," he instructed.

Scarlett sat, and to her great surprise, Rhett knelt in front of her. His large hands sifted through her hair, which she had only just tamed back with pins. He removed several of them from her coiffure and dropped them in her lap, before running his fingers through the locks, a little backwards and sideways, disheveling them. She shivered. He looked at her earnestly, trying to communicate something, but she didn't know what. Then he undid the top three buttons on her dress. Scarlett's heart pounded as his fingers brushed against her collarbone. She felt as if she was in a play but no one had told her what her lines were. He scanned her once again, and nodded to himself, before standing and untucking his own clothes. He retrieved a comb from one pocket, and dropped it in her lap with the pins.

"Yeah, I got a letter from Aunt Eleanor. She says if we don't stop over at Baltimore she'll never forgive us," he shouted, loudly enough—he hoped—to be heard outside.

"What are you—?" Scarlett hissed, but he interrupted her, putting one finger against her lips.

"The grandbaby is due next month, and she want us to come," he was shouting again. Scarlett could still feel the burning imprint of his finger against her lips. She still felt like she was in a play, she still wasn't sure what her lines were, but she thought she'd be able to follow along. She swallowed and nodded.

"She says she saw your sister Rosey the other day, and she's looking swell," he continued.

Someone knocked at the door. Rhett ducked behind the blanket and gestured to her. Scarlett's heart beat quickly, thrillingly, and she hoped she was up to this challenge. She leant forward in her chair, letting her hair fall in a dark curtain across much of her face, and picked up the comb.

"Come in!" she called, trying to disguise her voice in an exaggerated accent.

One of the detectives stepped inside. Rhett, who had stepped behind the blanket, and was doing a remarkable job of pretending he was unaware of their existence, much less their presence, continued in the same loud voice. "I hope Rosey has a girl, don't you? She's always wanted a boy, but boys are nothing but trouble. No use to anyone, boys, no indeed. I think we'll stop over in Baltimore this trip, darling. Give the family a treat."

Scarlett was absorbing this, trying to remember names, should she need them. Still combing her hair, she saw two feet stop on the floor next to her chair. She angled her head ever so slightly toward the figure, looked at him so as not to arouse suspicion, and then looked back down. Her heart thudded in her chest again. "Rhett!" she said, brightly. "Man here to see you, sweetheart!"

"Who, me?" Rhett asked, popping his head over the blanket. "You want to see me?"

The detective hadn't taken his eyes off Scarlett. "What's your name?" His voice slithered down her back.

"You addressin' me?" Scarlett asked.

"Yeah," he slithered again. "What's your name?"

Rhett moved from behind the blanket at this. "Hey, wait a minute! You're talking to my wife! You can't walk in here and—what do you want, anyway?"

"We're looking for somebody," the detective answered.

"Well, look your head off but don't come bustin' in here. This isn't a public park." Scarlett was thankful her hair hid her smile. "I have a good mind to sock you right in the nose." _Oh, he mustn't agitate them! Just go along until we can be rid of them,_ she thought.

The other detective and Peter had entered the cabin by now. "What's going on here?" the second detective asked, having heard the threat.

Peter looked tired. "These men are detectives, Mr.— Mr. and Mrs. Butler," he explained.

"I wouldn't care if they were the whole police department! They can't come in here and start shooting questions at my wife!" Rhett exclaimed.

"Don't get excited, Rhett. They just asked a simple question," she soothed.

Rhett turned on her, and she could just make out the bright sparkle in his eyes before he spoke again. Nastily. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop butting in when I have an argument?" Scarlett was glad she'd seen the sparkle, or she might have yelled at him. Oh, but maybe that could work to their advantage!

"Well, you don't have to lose your temper!" she said, sharply, and turned back to the table, as if hurt.

"That's what you told me the last time, too." Rhett said. "Every time I step in to protect you. At the Elks' dance, when that big Swede made a pass at you—"

"He didn't make a pass at me! I told you a million times!" Scarlett fired back, starting to enjoy herself.

"Oh no? I saw him, pawing you all over the dance floor!"

"He did no such thing! You were drunk!" Scarlett insisted.

"I was very drunk! And I intended to get drunker still, but that Swede— I'm sorry I didn't take another sock at him."

"What, and get yourself arrested again? How could you? After you promised!"

"Aw, nuts!" Rhett responded. "You're just like your old man! Once a plumber's daughter, always a plumber's daughter."

"Rhett Butler, you've gone far enough!" Scarlett stood, turning away from the detectives and making her way to her bed. She sat, carefully angled away from them, and pretended to cry. She wasn't very good at it, because she was biting her lip not to laugh at the scene they were making. The plumber's daughter remark glowed happily in her heart, as if it were an endearment. "I won't stand being insulted like this for another minute!" she shouted.

"Now look what you've done!" Rhett turned, directing this at the detectives.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Butler. But you see, we're supposed to check up on everybody," the first detective said.

"We're looking for a girl by the name of Scarlett O'Hara. You know—the daughter of that big textiles mug." Scarlett's smile slipped from her face.

"Well, I hope you find her," Rhett said, icily, indicating the door. Having dismissed them, he walked back toward her. "Aw, quit crying, honey, you know I didn't mean it."

The door closed, and faintly, a beleaguered voice outside said, "Like I said, sirs, a perfectly nice married couple."

When their footsteps no longer crunched on the gravel, Rhett and Scarlett both hurried to the window and peered out, assuring themselves that they were gone. Scarlett's back was warm where Rhett stood behind her.

His voice vibrated through her when he spoke. "It'll be a dirty trick on Rosey if it does turn out to be a girl."

Scarlett turned around, her cheeks pink from the excitement, unable to contain her mirth anymore. Laughter bubbled up her throat, and she doubled over at the thrill of escape, and what _fun_ their silly shouting match had been! Oh, it was absurd. Rhett's rich laughter was welcome alongside her own.

"Say, you were pretty good, jumping in like that. Got a brain behind that face, haven't you?"

Scarlett thought perhaps she should be offended at his surprise, but still sparkling from the whole experience, let it roll off her and concentrated only on his compliments. "You weren't so bad yourself," she said, charitably.

"We could start a two-person stock company," Rhett said, grinning. "If things get tough, we play some small town auditoriums. We'll call this one _The Great Deception_."

"Next week, _Pygmalion_ ," she countered, naming the only play she could currently think of. She hoped he didn't continue this game for long.

" _The Three Musketeers_ ," Rhett said, brandishing an imaginary sword. "I'd make a great D'Artagnan," he executed an exaggerated bow to prove his point.

"Or… _Cinderella_?" Scarlett half-guessed. "A real nice love story?"

"No mushy stuff," Rhett cut her off, but his eyes still gleamed. "I'm running this troupe."

Scarlett, her hands on her hips, puffed up indignantly, "Oh, you are? And just who made you the manager?"

"It was my idea, wasn't it?"

"You always want to run everything," she pouted, caught up in the strange, delirious fun of arguing.

"And you, my dear, want to have your fingers in all the pies, don't you?"

They were interrupted by another knock at the door, and Scarlett wailed. "You _would_ bring up the Swede again!" she cried, fearing the detectives had returned. But it was Peter who opened the door just a crack.

"Your bus leaves in five minutes," he reminded them.

And they had not even begun to pack!

~nb~

Cathleen watched the telegraph machine tap out its message, and walked into her boss' office with some little apprehension. "Another wire from Rhett Butler, boss."

"Throw it in the basket," Henry ordered, not looking up. Yet as she started to do so, his curiosity got the better of him. Damn Butler! "What's it say?" he asked, begrudgingly.

Cathleen cleared her throat. This was exactly what she'd hoped to avoid. " _'Have I got a story! It's getting hotter and hotter. Hope you're the same.'_ " she read.

Henry's face was getting red, and she knew what was coming. But he wouldn't let her just throw away the wires when they came in, either. Even when she suggested it! He snatched the paper from her loose grasp—he was lucky she didn't get a papercut, she thought (Butler had that effect on people)—and tore it into little, tiny pieces.

"Collect?" he asked.

"Yes," Cathleen said. _Always_ , Cathleen thought.

"Don't accept any more!" he shouted.

She smirked. _Told you_.


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: Fourteen chapters in, a brief title explanation: For months, I tried to mash-up some part of "Gone with the Wind" and "It Happened One Night." Gone One Night... mmm, no. It Happened with the Wind... terrible. I googled wind, looked up names of winds. And then I found it! It Happened One Night is based on a short story called Night Bus. And a bise is a north wind! (It is specifically a cold north wind generally in the Alps, so... let's gloss over that part and just focus on the wind meaning being perfect.) I'm a language nerd, so that little coincidence made my day. (Plus it sounds like the French for kiss! Language kismet all over the place. ;))_

 _Bugsie, I've never been so inspired! I will bribe you 'til the cows come home if that's what it takes and by cows I mean Rhett and Scarlett (sorry, darlings) and by come home I mean "have an earnest conversation and stop breaking their own hearts over bitter misunderstandings of one another." We want 4! We want 4!_

 _Thank you all for reading, and as always, your reviews are appreciated._

* * *

Chapter 14

High above Fifth Avenue, Gerald O'Hara paced up and down the length of his office, frowning absently at the leather-bound books and mahogany furniture. The man sitting in front of his desk was explaining something or detailing something, but Gerald had stopped listening. The actual words knotted his stomach up with worry—better to let them roll over you and be angry with the message as a whole.

"Three days!" he finally cut in. "It's been three whole days! And what have you accomplished?" He stalked over to his desk, his face growing redder. He waved his hand over a mess of papers scattered across his desk, much like the ones in front of him on his plane ride. "All you've shown me is a stack of feeble reports from those so-called detectives of yours!" He punctuated 'detectives' by thumping his fist on his desk. Unsatisfactory correspondences sifted down from one tall pile at the disturbance. He leaned forward across the desk, fixing the man sitting there with bright, blue eyes that were nearly incapable of conveying sternness. "I want _action_ , Lovington!"

Jonathan Lovington, for that is the name he went by now, shifted in his seat. Some unsavory associations, or perhaps actions on his own part, in his past had necessitated the name shift. The switch to Jonathan was simple, and close enough to his Christian name Jonas; his maternal grandmother's maiden name Lovington substituted nicely for Wilkerson. He'd built this agency from nothing but shrewd calculations and observations. He knew he would be rewarded handsomely for finding the girl, but he wasn't sure what more he could do. And while he enjoyed making money off these rich men, it always stuck in his craw when he had to butter them up or placate them.

"We can't do the impossible, Mr. O'Hara," he drawled.

"Bah!" Gerald said, swatting the air in his usual gesture of impatience. "What I'm asking isn't impossible. My daughter is somewhere between here and Miami," he pointed out the window (which faced west, but you get the point). "I want her found!"

"I've put extra men on, all along the way," Lovington repeated. Had the man listened to anything he had to say?

"It's obviously not enough!" Gerald cried. He narrowed his eyes. "Are you certain she's not with Ashley Wilkes?" Ashley _did_ have the resources, but he didn't seem capable of pulling off quite this feat. Still in all, it'd be foolish not to make certain of it.

"Yes, yes," Lovington assured him. "He's been trailed twenty-four hours a day since this whole thing started. He can't even get a phone call we don't know about," he answered smugly. _And what phone calls they were_ , he thought. When he wasn't ineffectually fretting about his dear Scarlett, the little drip was talking about how flying was like poetry, and how he wanted the world to see the same.

Gerald pressed two buttons on his desk and the intercom crackled. "Send in Ashburn and Benteen," he barked, before hanging up. Fatigue suddenly seemed to overtake him, and he leaned against his desk, and rubbed his forehead, his eyes downcast. "I'm worried, Lovington. After all, something might have happened—"

His admission was cut off when his office door opened and a small cluster of employees walked in.

"Yessir?" one of the summoned men asked.

"Oh, Benteen," Gerald said, his expression brightening ever so slightly. "I want you to arrange for a radio broadcast, right away. I want a coast to coast hookup. Tell them I'll offer a reward of ten thousand dollars for any information leading to her whereabouts."

"Yessir," Will responded smoothly. His calm, unhurried voice was often a source of comfort to his boss. He never _fretted_ like that Charles (who, bless his soul, was at least a fine attorney, even if he was far too skittish) and his slow drawl, which sometimes made people underestimate him, was steeled by a determined, reliable character.

Gerald looked back at his desk, the uninformative cables littered everywhere. One was even half-covering…

"Benteen!" he called again. Will, who had been making his way out the door, turned around.

"Yessir?"

Gerald unearthed the picture frame on his desk. "Send the story out to _all_ of the newspapers." He struggled with the frame in his haste, finally managing to slide the picture of Scarlett out. "Some of the out of town papers may not have a picture of her. Here," he handed the picture to Will. "Wire this to them. I want it to break right away."

"Yessir."

"Now, we'll get some action," Gerald muttered and resumed his agitated pacing. Between the detectives and Benteen, she _would_ be found. Surely, just like they said, no news was good news. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had brought this on himself. Had he been too hard with her? Or too soft? Ashley—what he remembered of him and knew about now, anyway—wasn't altogether such a _bad_ fellow. He just wasn't right for his Katie Scarlett. But he could learn to live with the man, if it meant that his daughter was home and safe. _Oh, Mrs. O'Hara_ … he intoned again.

Will, picture in hand, set off toward the telegraph office.

~nb~

Later that day, and several hundred miles south, Scarlett sighed and relaxed against the cushions of the bus seat. A group of musicians had just boarded in Charleston, and had been entertaining the passengers since. It had been such a nice day. Rhett was from here, and had told her about some of his childhood adventures growing up. Scarlett had family in the coastal city, and had visited once or twice with her mother. But she had been quite young then, and had little memory of the town. It had merely been a boring place where her mother's much older sisters reprimanded her behavior at every turn, and lamented, when they thought Scarlett was out of earshot, how very much her manners had been influenced by her _father's_ side.

Rhett, with his stories of rebellion and scrapes, made it seem like a place where fun was possible. As long as one didn't have to spend time with Pauline and 'Lalie.

Still in hiding, as it were, she did not get to explore any of the sights. But she was intrigued, and now she hoped to return.

She turned her attention to the window and looked out as the last of the palmettos slid into the deepening dusk. Smiling, she looked back at Rhett. "I hope we'll come back here someday," she said, her voice dreamy.

One corner of Rhett's mouth turned down as he turned to look at her. _Oh, did she now?_

"Fie, Mrs. Butler! Are you suggesting that _we_ will take trips together in the future?" The flower's face blushed red in mortification, and she covered her mouth in horror. She was temporarily speechless, and he wondered that she should be so embarrassed. A harmless slip of the tongue, the kind she was so wont to make. Why did it affect her so? He had thought she was a sensible person (marriage to Ashley Wilkes aside) and he did not want to be disappointed. There was nothing to be so embarrassed about—perhaps if he teased her out of her discomfiture and into anger…

"Perhaps you long to kiss the earth along the paths where a dashing young bootlegger such as myself got his start. Or is it my mother you're keen to meet?" he whispered, his eyes deadly earnest.

He could see when she regained herself, though her blush did not fade. Her eyes _snapped_ , and like that, she was laughing, and pretending to be angry at him.

 _What a perversely pleasant wretch he was!_ Scarlett thought to herself.

She could never let him know how near to the truth his first jest had been. She longed to retort, "But of course I meant with Ashley!" but as she opened her mouth to say it, she'd been struck by the stunning realization that she hadn't. She hadn't meant _herself and Rhett_ , but she hadn't meant herself and Ashley, either. Her _we_ had been… well, she didn't know. Just someone charming and interesting who made her laugh. This was what had rendered her momentarily mute, and she struggled with what it all meant. She had hardly thought of Ashley at all today. And Ashley would probably bore her with _history_ about Charleston, or try to divert her to Kitty Hawk altogether. Her heart panged at the disloyal thought, and she pushed it aside. This whole journey was a plan to reunite her with her beloved. She reasoned to herself that as long as she was traveling north toward him, she was sort of _de facto_ thinking of Ashley.

And then Rhett had teased her out of her discomfort and made her laugh again, and she was grateful to be thinking about something else. Her face was still hot, but she tossed her hair over her shoulders and replied airily, "You're a dirty-minded varmint."

Rhett laughed at her insult, and she couldn't help herself from laughing back with him. She sighed and settled back in her seat. How one person could be so marvelous at prickling her with teases, and setting her mind at ease the next instant, one did wonder.

She shook her head in something like amazement, and closed her eyes, returning her attention to the music.

Several rows ahead, Shapeley finally unfolded the newspaper he'd picked up in Charleston. And he grinned. _Believe you me._


	15. Chapter 15

_*checks watch* Weekly updates, followed by four months of radio silence, exactly as I had it on the schedule!_

My Festivus miracle is this snippet of writing for you! I am very much aiming for certain other story updates (first and foremost, the *Christmas* story, IAA) and will get those to you as possible. For the Airing of Grievances, please comment!

* * *

Chapter 15

"Hey fellas, do you know the one about the man who flew on the trapeze?"

As the musicians struck up another tune, Shapeley darted furtive glances around at his fellow passengers. Nobody else seemed to be reading a paper. Or if they were, they'd glossed over the cover story, and had no idea the proximity at which a small fortune currently rested. No one else was staring at Miss O'Hara—for now that he'd seen her picture, he was just about _positive_ it was her, yes sir. He peered at her from between the seats. She was in profile now, having turned to talk to her unhusband. She leaned forward and whispered something conspiratorially, and the man—also in profile, having turned to talk to her—smiled in response. She smiled back, a soft blush dusting her cheeks. There was that dimple. Just like in the picture he held in his lap. And the reward would be his alone. Or it would at least be his to share with that partner of hers, if Shapeley could talk him into turning her in. He had found that his devastating charm was put to its very best use with women, but surely he could find a way to convince that man. Ten thousand dollars! Oh, what he could do with that money…

Miss O'Hara turned to face front again, and he slunk down even further. Best not to alert her that anyone was onto her, of course. And comparing her again to the picture, he was now _certain_. He would soon be coming into some small fortune. He wondered again at the relationship between her and the man… what had she called him? Rex? Rhys? Reg? Shapeley had been none too keen to encounter him again after the last time, but if he wasn't her husband… Well, all that possessive jealousy had just been an act. He'd probably be all reasonable-like when Shapeley approached him again with the offer. Her husband, psh! He'd known all along, no sir, hadn't believed their act for a second.

And if he could steal her away by himself? _Ten thousand dollars!_ All the better. The bus was full of music and laughter, and he sat back in his seat. He felt pretty darn gleeful himself, and joined in the song. Yes sir, someone was smiling down on ol' Shapeley.

~nb~

Another man in a suit stood, and asked, "Do you mind if I take the third one?" and the crowd cheerfully assented.

This easy camaraderie of the bus passengers filled Scarlett with contentment. How nice this all was!

People could be so friendly. Too afraid of her father, or awed by Scarlett herself, people in her life had always been rather closed off from her. She'd always accepted it as how people were, but on this trip she had experienced a very pleasant openness. She wasn't at all accustomed to it, but she decided she wanted to be. She didn't know if the old Scarlett would have joined in, or found such common entertainment beneath her, but the new Scarlett certainly would not. No, she was going to enjoy herself. She wasn't going to be lonely anymore. This thought struck her as very strange. Her, lonely? But how could that be, when she had been surrounded by people who loved her all her life?

Such a line of thinking was entirely foreign to her, and not to her liking, either. It was distracting her from everyone's fun. She could think about this later.

Her determination was just then assisted by the bus driver and the rainy road. The vehicle lurched, and deposited Scarlett neatly wedged on the floor between her seat and the row in front.

"Thank the man for me, Rhett. This is the first comfortable position I've had all night," she laughed.

Rhett smiled and reached out to help her up, continuing the song as he did.

 _'She flies through the air, with the greatest of ease—'_ his singing voice was a pleasant, rich baritone.

As his fingers slid under hers, it happened again—something like light, very bright, but not uncomfortable, jumped from his skin to hers, sending a frisson of sensation down her spine. His eyes had twinkled with good humor as he sang, but as he pulled her up, she had the curious feeling that he had sensed it, too. That light had changed, deepened into something… something— oh! she couldn't put her finger on it, wasn't even sure if there was a name to it. If there was, it was probably a 37-letter German word, and Ashley probably knew what it was.

 _Oh, good heavens, Ashley!_ Her cheeks tingled with embarrassment, certain that Ellen would not approve, although she couldn't think exactly why, even as her heart thumped regretfully as she uncurled her hand from Rhett's.

"Tha—" she began. Fate saved her further discomfiture when a sharp cry several rows ahead interrupted her. It was fortunate, indeed, for Scarlett, anyway, that this happened, saving her as it did from speaking coldly in exactly the manner most likely to annoy and offend her partner. It was, of course, less fortunate to the issuant of the sharp cry, but I'm getting there.

"Ma! _Ma!_ " a little boy was calling, pushing at the shoulder of a small, very pale woman. Other passengers had crowded around, but Rhett, with his broad shoulders, parted the cluster, Moses-like. Scarlett followed easily in his wake.

The boy's clothes were rumpled, his blond curls flattened from where his cap, now twisting in his hands, had sat. "Ma! What's the matter with you? Ma!" he called, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Around them, Scarlett heard the passengers who had been nearest whisper to each other. " _She's fainted_." and " _See, look how pale she is!_ "

Rhett, assessing the situation, took charge. "Somebody, get her some water," he said, before turning to the boy, and talking soothingly. "Better let me get in there, son."

The boy sniffed and reluctantly let go of his mother's hand, but edged out of the seat so Rhett could move in. He lifted her up and sat her across the two seats, with her back facing the window. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he did so, and he shifted her away to lean against the seats so she would not fall.

Scarlett felt a nudge in her ribs, and found a hand holding a cup of water when she looked down. "Oh yes, thank you," she smiled, and handed it over to Rhett. The woman's eyes opened slowly, and she looked around, bewildered.

"That's better," Rhett said, his tone surprisingly gentle. "You're all right now—just took a little nose-dive, is all," and offered her the water.

He helped her to sit up, before the boy, who had been gripping Scarlett's hand, she now realized, burst forward again, and threw his arms around his mother. Scarlett noticed how the woman seemed exhausted simply by her son's relief, and looked at Rhett. Fortunately, he'd seen it, too, and drew the boy away. Scarlett sat down next to the woman, and kept half an eye on Rhett and the boy, as they moved up the aisle.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 _A/N: As with other characters who have popped up, familiar names don't necessarily have the same relationships to characters in this universe as they do in the book. (For example, the two recently-introduced characters here are not related to certain characters as they are in the book.)_

 _And when I say "recently-introduced" I of course mean nearly a year ago, lol. It's been a weird, bad year and a half-ish, and I've missed writing dreadfully. Take care of yourselves, everyone. *mwah*)_

 _Thank you for sticking with me, and reading and reviewing!_

* * *

"Oh, gee, Ma!" the boy at his side cried, turning back to look at his mother as they walked away.

Rhett was unaccustomed to dealing with children he didn't know, but he liked them when they weren't lying or cheating like tiny adults. This boy seemed genuinely heartbroken, and he hoped he could say something to make him feel better.

"Come on, son. We'd better give your mother a chance to come around."

The boy gave a dry sob and sniffled again. "It's all right, son," he patted him on the shoulder. She'll be good as new in a couple of minutes, you'll see." Hoping to distract him, he asked, "What's your name?"

"B- b- Beau," the boy stumbled over the answer.

"Beau," Rhett echoed, saying the name thoughtfully. "Sounds like an awfully strong name to me."

"I told Ma to have my dinner yesterday, but she said I had t' have it," Beau answered, beginning to scuff his toe against the bus floor in embarrassment before stopping, mid-motion, and planting both feet again rigidly.

"There, you see?" Rhett tried to soothe him. "Only an awfully strong man like yourself would offer his supper to his mother." The boy seemed to perk up a little at this description of himself, straightening his shoulders a little. "Mothers will do their best for their children, you can't feel guilty for that," Rhett reasoned.

"But Pa told me to take care of her," Beau argued.

"And you have, by getting her help, see?" Rhett gestured down the aisle to where the woman was now sitting up straight, if still a little wan. She smiled as she took another cup of water from Scarlett. "I'm sure your Pa would be proud of everything you've done. Where is he?" Rhett noted, his personal and reporter's curiosity, at least for a moment, overcoming Eleanor's strict lessons.

"We shouldna come," Beau sniffled. "But Ma said there's a job waiting for her in the city—and if we didn't go, she might lose it. We didn't know the tickets were gonna be so much," he finished, wiping his nose on one well-mended, slightly scrubby sleeve.

"Now, now," Rhett began, "don't you worry about that position. Someone strong as your Ma is worth waiting for, you know." He felt a twinge of guilt, promising the boy something when he had no control over it. But sometimes hope and kindness proved their worth more than pragmatism, especially when children were involved.

He reached into his pocket for a bill, and pulled out a ten. Glancing down at the boy to make sure he hadn't noticed, Rhett carefully felt again for a smaller denomination, and grimaced when he came up empty-handed. (Well, except for the ten dollar bill.)

He was closing his hand into a fist around the precious lucre, when he felt something soft brush against his side.

~nb~

Once the woman seemed well enough to sit up on her own, Scarlett had stayed with her as she finished another cup of cool water, and found herself in the uncommon position of confidant. The woman was a widow—Melanie was her name—and she had almost no one in the whole world except her son. After her husband had died, she'd tried to provide for her tiny family with sewing services, but it hadn't been enough. Then some kind relative had written about an opportunity for a typist in New York, and off she and Beau had set. "I feel like such a fool," she confided, her large brown eyes fatigued yet determined. "My darling uncle offered to pay the fare, but I didn't want to be a burden to him. I'd no idea the tickets would be so dear!"

Scarlett smiled and patted the woman's hand. She seemed a nice lady, although Scarlett couldn't help secretly agreeing that she might be a fool, turning down free tickets like that. She _was_ nice, this Melanie, but she made Scarlett feel almost uncomfortable. She must have thanked Scarlett for "all her kindness" a dozen times in their short conversation.

Scarlett had never been one to discount a nice thing said about her, but such lavish praise felt undeserved, like the time Ashley had complimented _her_ peach pie. Scarlett, all of nine years old at the time, had beamed and thanked him, tossing her hair over her shoulders, until she saw Miss Doralise in the doorway, her mouth all squunched to one side in disapproval. Deecie would never say anything to Ashley, but she knew exactly what contributions to the pie Scarlett had made, and they largely revolved around drawing various curlicues in the flour until Deecie had shooed her away to a chair from which she could only observe, under threat that if her feet touched the floor before the pie was cooling on the windowsill, Scarlett would not get any of it. Scarlett had huffed and scowled, and let her feet swing dangerously close to the floor, but she couldn't bring herself to truly risk missing out on pie. Her conscience pricked under Deecie's dark, knowing gaze, she shifted in her seat, and mumbled, "Thank you, Ash, but it's really Deece— Miss Doralise's pie. She did most—" one dark eyebrow shot up from the doorway, and Scarlett made a face in response, "well, all, really— all her work." Deecie's eyes shone in triumph, and Scarlett begrudgingly admitted to herself that she felt better.

Melanie's dark eyes reminded her of Deecie's, and Scarlett felt sure that this was something Ellen would think she should confess. "It was nothing, my dear, really," Scarlett assured Melanie again. Patting her hand once again, she slipped out of the seat and escaped up the aisle under the pretense of checking on the lady's son. As she walked, she straightened her shoulders and resolved to be helpful. Somehow.

The opportunity presented itself immediately.

~nb~

Rhett looked down to see the flower reaching for his hand. His breath caught, and his heart beat more quickly, as her fingers brushed his so lightly it tickled. Why was she trying to hold his hand? Her skin was so soft… Disappointment clashed with horror as he watched her slip the money from his fingers and hand it to the little boy.

"Here. The first town we come to, buy yourself and your mother some food," she smiled and stood.

"I— I oughta— I shouldn't take this," Beau said, his arm reaching up feebly, his mother's teachings fighting with a rumbling stomach that made him reluctant.

"Just don't tell her anything about it." She smiled and Rhett fought the urge to laugh at her obvious charm offensive. "Being hungry is terrible, isn't it?" she commiserated awkwardly. Leaning forward, she whispered conspiratorially, "You don't want her to get sick again, do you?" Rhett chuckled before he could help it, and covered it with a cough. His flower was delightfully manipulative.

"Oh, but I shouldn't," Beau repeated, though his arm jerked back a fraction of an inch. "You might need it," he said, turning to Rhett.

The flower smiled up at him with shining eyes, and he knew the cause was lost. Besides, he couldn't help but think of that last shoeless child who'd partially precipitated his getting into this whole adventure.

"Me?" he asked nonchalantly. "Forget it," he rumpled the boy's hair. "I got millions," he said, and grinned.

Beau smiled back, clearly relieved. "Thanks, mister."

"Come on, let's go back to your mother," the flower said, reaching for the boy's hand before awkwardly retracting it and patting him on the head instead. "We'll just say you found this in your pocket—some forgotten birthday money, or…"

Rhett rocked back on his heels, and shook his head in unconscious awe at the way her mind worked. The flower's words drifted off as Rhett watched them walk back down the aisle.

* * *

 _(So yeah, I didn't want to spoil the names up top, but Melanie and Beau here are not like a secret wife and son that this story's Ashley has. They're just Melanie and Beau, and Depression-era poverty aside, aren't they better off without Ashley, anyway? WHO AMONGST US WOULD NOT BE. Haha.)_


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Happy New Year! I hope everyone's 2019 is better than their 2018 (no matter how good or bad your 2018 was! Always hope for improvement, right?) I make NO WRITING RESOLUTIONS, but I definitely hope to be more productive in the next year. In the meantime, our next installment! Young people in love are about to be hungry. :)

* * *

Chapter 17

As Scarlett returned Beau to his mother, Rhett remembered the jarring stop that had precipitated this incident. Peering out the front window, he could see the driver staring hopelessly at the passenger wheel well. That didn't bode well, he thought, one corner of his mouth curling down, as he went to see for himself.

The driver looked up as Rhett unfolded his long legs from the bus stairs. "Storm sure made a mess out of these roads," he offered.

Rhett walked around to see what the driver did: the front wheel in a large mudhole, stuck at an angle no bus wheel should go.

"I don't suppose you have a spare axle."

"Ha!" the driver dismissed him. "I'd phone for help, but we're right in the middle of nowhere. There isn't a town for miles."

Rhett frowned and walked a short ways down the outside of the bus, his intention he knew not what: conjure up a telephone out of thin air? With regard to transportation, his flower simply had the _worst_ luck in the world.

"What's up?" he heard a slippery, familiarly unwelcome voice behind him.

Rhett turned around to find Shapeley grinning at him, an expression that portended—if not doom, then at least an unpleasant conversation to follow.

"It looks like we're going to be stuck for a long time," he replied brusquely, and made to move past Believe You Me.

"Say, Doc," Shapeley started, and Rhett continued to walk away. "Like to have a look at my paper?" That last: spoken far too softly for a man of such… _grace_. Rhett knew instinctively that he and the flower had a new adversary.

Rhett turned back. Shapeley was holding out his paper, folded to avoid any possibly prying eyes from the bus, but the headline jumped out – $10,000 REWARD – and the picture of Scarlett was clearly visible enough. Rhett looked back to Shapeley, his face coolly placid, his mind churning. A $10,000 reward, they'd never make it…

He waited for the shorter man to open the… dealings.

"Travelin' like this, you kinda lose track of what's goin' on in the world," Shapeley offered.

"Mm-hmm," Rhett replied noncommittally.

Shapeley shifted, clearly hoping to get more reaction than he'd gotten. It was a start, Rhett thought.

"If you wanna get anywhere nowadays, you gotta keep in touch with all the news, 's what I always say."

"That's right," he nodded. Rhett had to admit to himself that Shapeley might be a better poker player than he expected. He wasn't giving anything away. Not yet, at least.

"Take this story right here, for instance," Shapeley said, tapping the photo right on the flower's dimple. Rhett inwardly grimaced. "Be mighty nice if we could collect that ten thousand smackers."

"Yeah, wouldn't it?" Rhett asked, wistfully, smoothing his fingers across his mustache dreamily. Playing dumb wasn't his favorite thing in the world, but it couldn't hurt to have Shapeley underestimating him.

"It's a heck of a lotta dough. 'F I was ta run across that dame, ya know what I'd do?"

 _Finally, they were getting somewhere_. Still, he continued the charade, for now. "No, what?"

"I'd go fifty-fifty with you," Shapeley answered, smiling.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"'Cause I'm a guy that don't believe in hoggin' it, see? A bird that figures that way winds up behind the eight ball, is what I always say," his voice unctuously generous.

"What's on your mind?" Rhett leaned close, conspiratorially.

"Five Gs—or I crab the works," Shapeley said, his eyes gleaming.

Rhett made a show of looking around them at the small crowd. "We better get away from this gang. Talk this thing over privately," he jerked his head toward some trees a little ways off, his voice low.

The little man puffed up, extremely self-satisfied, and stuffed the newspaper into his coat pocket. "I knew she wasn't your wife the whole time."

Rhett didn't have time to enjoy the man's obvious lie, as he was sifting too quickly through various scenarios, discarding all but one. He hoped it worked. He led the way toward the little grove, Shapeley following at his elbow.

Once he judged that they were far away enough, Rhett turned around to make sure they were concealed from the rest of the passengers.

"It's a lucky thing, my running into you," he started. "You're just the man I need."

Shapeley's smile widened. "You're not making any mistake, doc, believe you me."

"I can use a smart guy like you." he continued.

If Shapeley's coat had been fastened, the buttons would have popped off with pride as Rhett puffed him up. As it was, he merely put his thumbs in his suspenders as he spoke. "Say listen, when you're talkin' to old man Shapeley, you're talking to—"

Rhett leaned in closely, his voice thick with urgency. "Do you pack a gat?"

Shapeley looked up quickly, the smile disappearing from his face in comical degrees. "Wh—what?" his voice squeaked with uncertainty.

"A gat! A gat!" Rhett repeated, hurriedly. "A rod. Got any fireworks on you?" He began to feel inside Shapeley's pockets for the "sought-after" gun.

"Why, ah- no—" Shapeley started to shift his weight back and forth between his feet.

"That's all right," Rhett shrugged. "I got a couple of machine guns in my suitcase. I'll let you have one of them," he offered generously.

Shapeley's mouth formed a round o, but no sound came out, as Rhett continued to sketch out rough details of a gangster conspiracy. "—expect a little trouble up North. We may have to shoot it out with the cops," he finished.

Beads of sweat were beginning to pop out on Shapeley's forehead. Good. This ridiculous story actually appeared to be working.

"If you come through all right, your five Gs are in the bag. Maybe more. I'll talk to Killer, see that he takes care of you."

It was quiet for a heartbeat, before: "K— kill— Killer?" Shapeley finally squeaked.

"Yeah, yeah, the big boy," Rhett said, starting to enjoy himself, now that success looked more likely. "You know, the boss of the whole outfit."

Shapeley clutched at Rhett's lapels. "You're not— ki- kidnapping her, are ya?" His nervous stutter was getting worse.

"What else, stupid!" At this, Shapeley released Rhett's coat like it was hot coals. "You don't think we're after some penny-ante reward, do you? Pssh," Rhett's voice dripped with disdain. "Ten thousand bucks? That's chicken feed. Listen, we're holding that dame for a million smackers."

"Say, say… look— I didn't know it was anything like this, see—and—" Shapeley started to turn back to the bus.

Rhett grabbed Shapeley by the shoulders and shook him. "What's the matter with you, ya getting' yella?" he menaced.

"Oh, well, I— I'm a married man, got a couple of kids. I can't get mixed up with—" The man's alarm was raising his voice too loud.

"Sh-sh-sh—!" Rhett hissed, no pretend urgency in his voice now. "Pipe down, you mug—before I—!" He shook the man again, because he could. "What're you trying to do? Tell the whole world about it? Now listen, you're in this thing—and you're staying in! Get me? You know too much," he growled.

"I— I— I won't say anything," Shapeley blubbered. "Honest, I won't." He really was frightened now. Rhett almost felt sorry for him.

"Oh yeah? How do I know that? I got a good mind to plug you." He reached into his coat as if for a weapon. "Why should I take a chance with you?"

"You can trust me, Mister. I'll keep my mouth shut," Shapeley promised, mopping his brow.

Rhett glared at him intently, assessing. "What's your name?"

"Oscar Shapeley." He gulped.

"Where do you live?"

"Orange, New Jersey." Shapeley spoke clearly, like a small child proud of learning and being able to recite such information about himself.

"Got a couple of kids, huh?" Rhett remarked, stroking his mustache.

"Y- yes, sir. Just babies. A little golden-haired girl—"

"Love 'em, don't you?" Rhett interrupted.

"Oh, gee, Mister," Shapeley's eyes widened in horror, "you wouldn't—you ain't thinkin' about—"

"You'll keep your trap shut, all right," Rhett muttered, his eyes glittering.

Shapeley was nodding furiously. "Sure—sure, I will—I'll keep my trap shut. You can depend on me, Mister, uh— doc."

"If you don't…" Rhett drifted off pointedly. "Ya ever hear of Bugs Dooley?

Shapeley shook his head solemnly, wordlessly.

"A nice guy, Bugs. Just like you. But he made a big mistake, one day. Got kind of talkative. Know what happened? Well, I can't tell you, but when he saw what they'd done, he couldn't take it. Blew his brains out."

"Gee! That musta been terrible," Shapeley admitted, before his eyes widened again. "But, see, I guess he had it coming to him, talking too much, he shouldna— don't you worry about me none, I don't talk, I never talk. Believe you me, won't never say a word, I wouldn't want anything to happen to my babies."

Rhett felt reassured enough for the moment. So did his gangster persona. He nodded. "Okay. Just remember that. Now beat it."

Shapeley grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. "Oh, thanks— thanks, Mister. I— I always knew you guys were kind-hearted."

"Come on, scram! And stay away from that bus," Rhett ordered.

"Oh, sure, sure, uh, doc. Anything you say," Shapeley bobbed his thanks and backed away from Rhett, his mouth still working mutely.

Shapeley had tripped over a root in his backward haste, and sprang back up, brushing himself off as he turned away, and began to run. Rhett smirked, and lit a cigarette.

Rhett watched him a moment longer, and blew a ring of smoke, contemplating again. One problem might have been solved, but a host of new ones had sprung up.

~nb~

"What's the matter? Why'd we have to leave the bus?" Scarlett asked, as Rhett pulled her along the empty road.

"Come on, come on, don't ask so many questions," Rhett chided her.

"Well, why?"

They had reached a small stream, and Rhett let go of her hand. A large branch was strewn across the bank, and Scarlett perched on it and tried to catch her breath.

"Poor old Shapeley. You shouldn't have frightened him like that," the flower said, a laugh in her voice as Rhett relayed how he'd gotten them out of this predicament.

"At the rate he's going, he's probably crossed two state lines by now," Rhett chuckled and sat down on another branch.

"So… why did we have to leave the bus?" she asked again.

Rhett was removing his shoes and socks. "Well, when Shapeley stops running, he's going to start thinking.

Scarlett leaned forward in anticipation.

"I've been doing some thinking, too," he continued. "Next town we come to, you better wire your father."

The words rather knocked her back, and she sat up straight as she digested this. He was leaving her? Alone on a road with spies everywhere? He didn't dare! Did he? "What's the matter? You weakening?" she asked, hoping she sounded more teasing than frightened.

"Oh no, I was just thinking of you," he assured her. Well, that was certainly nice. "A starvation diet may not agree with you."

She leaned forward again, alarmed. "Did you give that child _all_ your money?" she asked, incredulous.

"I didn't give him anything," he reminded her. "You were the big-hearted gal. All the money I had was that ten-spot." He tucked his socks into his shoes. "So I've been thinking— you… better wire your father."


End file.
